


Brave

by chappysmom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And smart., Brave, Did I mention John was being brave?, Gen, John being brave, Post-Reichenbach, Really smart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:11:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chappysmom/pseuds/chappysmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach, all John really wants to do is clear his friend's name, but in the face of the press and all the skeptics, what can one, lone blogger do? Be Brave, of course. </p><p>Inspired by Sarah Bareilles’ wonderful, catchy tune, “<a href="http://brave.sarabareilles.com/">Brave</a>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC’s and Arthur Conan Doyle’s. I just like to play here. Not beta’d or Brit-picked. 
> 
> Inspired by Sarah Bareilles’ “[Brave](http://brave.sarabareilles.com/).”

_—“Everybody’s been there, everybody’s been stared down by the enemy. Fallen for the fear, and done some disappearing, Bowed down to the mighty. Don’t run. Stop holding your tongue. Maybe there’s a way out of the cage where you live. Maybe one of these days you can let the light in. Show me how big your brave is.”_

#

John sat nursing a cup of tea. It was mid-morning and most of the early-morning, commute-to-work bustle had died down, leaving mostly tourists and people running errands out on the streets. People with places to go, things to do. A reason to get up in the morning.

Not him, though. Since Sherlock had died, there had really been no reason for, well, anything. 

He had been surprised to learn that Sherlock had left him enough money to more than cover his living expenses. But then, he’d been surprised that Sherlock had had the money in the first place, until he had reminded himself of Sherlock’s designer suits and apparently bottomless pockets for cab fare or bribes for the Homeless Network. Besides, it seemed fairly obvious that neither he nor Mycroft had been raised in poverty.

No, the real surprise had been that not only had Sherlock had the money (making his need for a flatmate null), but that he’d left it to John of all people. Not that Sherlock had had many (any?) friends, and it wasn’t like Mycroft needed more cash since he was obviously doing fine as he was, but still, John had been touched.

It had been helpful at first—not having to drag himself out past the press camped on the pavement to go job hunting had been a blessing. Knowing there was enough to cover the rent for Mrs Hudson was a relief, even if he hadn’t been able to bear staying at the flat after that first, dreadful night. He was staying stayed at the empty flat of one of his still-deployed army mates until he could bear to go back.

He’d forgotten how much he hated being alone.

His current state of loneliness and lack of purpose was all too similar to how he’d been when he’d returned from Afghanistan. His bad leg was acting up again, but he didn’t know how to fix it. Sherlock had taken one look and diagnosed a need for adrenalin, for purpose and while John agreed with that, what was he supposed to do? The biggest surge of adrenalin he got these days was walking past a newsstand. Even if he were qualified without Sherlock, it wasn’t like he could go to crime scenes and volunteer his services. After the hits his reputation had taken alongside Sherlock’s, there was no point. The only way he was getting near a crime scene was to commit one himself.

Ironically, that would probably provide just the surge of adrenalin he needed. Luckily for Her Majesty’s law and order, he was too law-abiding to consider it. For long. He had to admit he wondered if Mycroft would let him get away with it if he tried.

Sherlock’s brother had been … quiet … since Sherlock died. Part of John wanted to believe it was all guilt-driven, but in retrospect, probably not. He wasn’t even as angry at Mycroft anymore. He had been furious at first—beyond enraged at the brother’s betrayal, but what was the point? Moriarty had been a genius and had been determined to play both the Holmes brothers. And he had succeeded. Mycroft had lost the brother he’d spent his whole life protecting, and, well, John was sure he was punishing himself more than John ever could. 

No, he wasn’t angry at Mycroft. If anything, he felt entirely neutral toward Mr British Government. He had seen Mycroft’s hand in Lestrade’s keeping his job—and the way the Chief Superintendent had lost his. (John found he could bear that loss to the police force with fortitude. About the only thing that had made him smile in that first week after Sherlock’s jump had been the photos of the beleaguered policeman with his bandaged nose and black eyes.)

Of course, this all just contributed to John’s total lack of purpose these days. His finances were covered, he had nowhere to go, nothing to do. No cases. No blog entries. No Sherlock.

He knew this had to stop. He had lost friends before, after all. It wasn’t like the grieving process was new. The difference, though, was that this time, there was nothing else _in_ his life, not really. When he’d lost people before, he’d had medicine to practice, or soldiers to save—he had mourned the fallen friends, but he had been busy. There had been distractions.

It wasn’t until Sherlock was gone that John had realized how much his life revolved around that one man—his job had been looking after Sherlock, assisting him on cases. His recreation had largely centred around writing blog posts of their cases (or recovering from the exhaustion following their cases). He hadn’t been able to keep a girlfriend, or a reliable job at a medical practice. His friends had mostly been connected to Sherlock, but going out for pints with Lestrade was … tricky these days. 

So, here he was, sitting in a coffee shop at 10:30 in the morning, nursing a cup of tea and thinking about what a wasteland his life had become.

The worst part, he thought, was that not only had he lost Sherlock, but that he’d lost Sherlock’s reputation. With Moriarty’s character assassination on top of whatever he’d done to make Sherlock jump (because John refused to believe Sherlock jumped of his own free will), John was left with no-one who really missed Sherlock the way he did. Mrs Hudson came close, but while her faith was unshakable, she hadn’t worked with Sherlock the way John had. She hadn’t seen the sheer brilliance of Sherlock’s mind at work. Those who had—the fine men and women of New Scotland Yard—had resolutely turned their backs and refused to discuss him at all. 

John supposed he could understand that from an official standpoint. After the career assassination the Chief Superintendent had suffered, he could understand how the Yard might refuse to speculate on Sherlock’s abilities in public. But, unofficially? Lestrade was the only one who John had heard anything from in the weeks since Sherlock’s death. All the other people who had witnessed Sherlock’s deductive abilities were keeping quiet.

John could still remember that conversation, one of the last at Baker Street, where he’d warned Sherlock that every officer he’d ever made to feel like a tit would be coming for him, and that was a lot of people. Well, almost to a man, they were all keeping a uniform silence about him now. They weren’t speaking against him anymore, but they weren’t trying to help resurrect his reputation, either.

He thought about how, in that same conversation, Sherlock had said he didn’t care what people thought. John had protested that he’d care if they had thought he was wrong, or stupid, and Sherlock hadn’t responded to that. 

Then, less than twelve hours later, he had thrown himself off a building, claiming “it was all a lie.”

It didn’t make sense. If Sherlock had cared so little for what other people thought, why would he jump? If he had cared, he would have stayed and fought—because John didn’t believe the lies for a minute. Sherlock’s jumping would only confirm the rumours. He had said as much on the phone during that godawful last conversation. 

But Sherlock hadn’t cared—which he’d told John just hours earlier. Why the contradiction? Sherlock more than, well, anyone, was appallingly consistent. If he believed something today, he would believe it next month or next year unless you proved beyond a doubt that it was untrue. He honestly hadn’t cared what people thought about him. Though John supposed he might have cared if his reputation had affected their receiving new cases.

No, the only thing John could think was that somehow, someway, Moriarty had _made_ Sherlock kill not only himself but his reputation. Why else would Sherlock have asked John to tell people he’d lied? Because the only lie Sherlock had ever told John (that mattered, anyway) had been then, on that rooftop, when he claimed to be a fraud. John knew full well that Sherlock hadn’t had time to research him, and if he had, he never would have made the assumption that Harry was his brother and not his sister. Never.

He had to have had his reasons, even if John didn’t understand them. It was the only thing that made sense.

John sometimes wondered if he should feel guilty about denying Sherlock’s last wish. Not only had he not passed on Sherlock’s confession, he had asserted quite the opposite on his final blog post. He believed in his friend, and always would.

He just wished other people would believe him.

Not that John had tried all that hard. In the days following Sherlock’s jump, it had been all he could manage to shower and make tea and toast. He certainly hadn’t been up to facing the press gauntlet outside his door, nor had he been willing to allow himself to be interviewed by any of them. As much as he wanted to revive his friend’s reputation, the guilt at going against his last (inscrutable, incomprehensible) wishes had kept him silent.

Now, though, he wondered if he’d done the right thing. 

He took a sip of his now-cold tea and stared out the window, then realized his fingers were tapping on the cup in time to the shop’s music. It was only then that he actually started listening to the words.

“ _… your history of silence won’t do you any good. Did you think it would? Let your words be anything but empty. Why don’t you tell them the truth? Say what you wanna say, And let the words fall out. Honestly, I wanna see you be brave…_ ”

Brave, he thought. I used to be brave.

Let the words fall out, huh? Maybe it was time he be brave again. 

He got up from his seat and approached the counter. “Do you know this song?” he asked the young girl at the register.

“It’s ‘Brave’ by Sarah Bareilles. Isn’t she wonderful?”

He nodded. “Yes. Yes, she is.”

And oddly, as he walked out of the shop, he was feeling a spring to his step that hadn’t been there in far too long.

 

#

 

He looked up the song as soon as he got home.

It was almost eerie how much he felt like it was speaking to him.

God knew he’d stared down an enemy or twenty in his time, and he wasn’t even sure James Moriarty had been the worst of them. 

It was true, though—in cases like these, silence only helped the enemy. Had he been keeping quiet because it was what Sherlock would have wanted (as second choice from John spreading the lie he’d asked him to tell)? Or had he kept to himself because he was too afraid to speak up on behalf of his friend? Too scared to risk … what, exactly? More blows to his own now-shaky reputation? It wasn’t like he needed a job. He didn’t have many friends or family to embarrass, or whose condemnation would worry him. It’s not like he and Harry were close.

What did he have to lose? Like the song said, he needed to find a way out of this cage, and speaking up for Sherlock? That just felt right. It wasn’t facing down a madman with a gun or risking his life, but defending Sherlock’s reputation would need a different kind of bravery.

And so, setting the song to loop on his computer, he pulled up his blog. 

Before he could back down, John decided he would write just a quick entry to his blog. He pulled up the right screen, took a deep breath, and began typing.

 

#

> I know it’s the height of unpopularity to think well of Sherlock Holmes these days. Without wanting to be rude, though, I choose to believe that most of you reading my blog believe in him as much as I do. (And if you don’t, why the hell are you even here?) I spent too much time with Sherlock to believe that anything he did was fake. True, he occasionally fibbed to get information from a reluctant witness. He had no problems bending the truth when he needed to, BUT he always did it with a reason. His goal was always to find the hidden truth, to unravel the puzzle, and if he had to lie to do it, well, it was for the greater good. 
> 
> He had a reputation of a man who didn’t care, but in fact, he cared deeply. Just because he did not allow himself to get distracted by things like a victim being a mother of three young children, or a child, or a victim of a serial killer didn’t mean those details didn’t affect him. His argument was that emotions distracted him, and so, therefore, emotions were not allowed to interfere—even if that occasionally made him look heartless. 
> 
> Because that’s all it was—him _looking_ heartless. Because he was not. When he had a case, he gave everything he had to find the guilty party so that the victims’ families would have closure. (Not that he would ever admit that as a reason, of course.) During a case he wouldn’t eat, he wouldn’t sleep, he would not allow distractions of any kind. He was dedicated and relentless, and if that occasionally (often) rubbed people the wrong way because he seemed uncaring, that says more about their lack of observation than his commitment. 
> 
> I made that mistake myself, once, and accused him of not caring about a series of victims. He told me that there was no such thing as heroes, and if there were, he wouldn’t be one of them. It seems sad to me that, right now, most of you reading would agree with him.
> 
> But I don’t. No matter what Sherlock is accused of, I saw the man in action. I saw him deduce things about strangers when we were out on the street, waiting for a taxi. He would observe things and make statements that seemed like he’d pulled them out of thin air. Secret affairs, types of pets, lengths of marriages, whether an employer smoked or not … I know he’s been accused of having somehow master-minded a series of crimes, but I cannot imagine why he could possibly have needed to. He had enough skill and dedication to solve any crime put in front of him, and I saw the proof of that every day. He had no reason to try to create them just so he could be the hero to solve them. In fact, quite the contrary. 
> 
> Sherlock didn’t care about his reputation. He didn’t care if people thought he was right or wrong as long as HE knew he was right. He’s accused of being egotistical, and he was, but it was all internalized. The only accolade he needed was knowing that he was _right_. The only rationale behind master-minding a crime so you can ‘solve’ it is to look good, look heroic, but that was the last thing Sherlock wanted. He hated being in the public eye, hated the notoriety that made it difficult for him to walk down the street unnoticed. The only benefit was that it meant more complex cases came his way—and that? That he loved.
> 
> I was told the night I met him that Sherlock Holmes was a great man, and that if we were all very lucky, he’d someday be a good one.
> 
> Well, I believe that he was. I don’t know why he jumped off that building, but I will never believe it was out of a sense of guilt for a pack of lies—lies that make no sense, because they’re based on the presumption that _Sherlock Holmes cared what all of you think about him_. He did not. He barely cared what I thought of him, and I was his best friend—his only friend, if he could be believed. 
> 
> In my book, friends don’t abandon each other in time of need. I never left my army buddies on the field, and I’m not going to abandon Sherlock now. Instead, I’m going to do my best to prove to all of you that his methods, the crimes he solved and, most important, the man himself were all real and true. 
> 
> Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud. Because, honestly, he didn’t care enough about what _you_ think to have been worth his effort.
> 
> But I do. And I’m going to convince you.

#

 

John clicked Post and then leaned back in his chair, exhausted. He felt like he’d just run ten miles, but at the same time, he could feel a sense of purpose again.

He was going to prove to the world that Sherlock was the real thing. 

He didn’t have the resources to address the Moriarty issue, he thought as he walked across the room to pour himself a whiskey. (He deserved one, he thought, if only to be able to toast this new endeavour.) But he didn’t need the big cases to prove his point. If anything, that would be detrimental because people had already made up their minds on those. No, he would start with the basics.

He had spent enough time with Sherlock at least to understand _what_ he was doing, even if he didn’t have half the man’s observational skills—or encyclopaedic knowledge of, well, everything. John had been slower putting the pieces together, but then, so had everyone compared to Sherlock. But still—he understood the concept and the skill behind it.

So, without addressing anything in particular (like, say, Moriarty), he would start with the groundwork. Just like he’d been taught in school—you start with a foundation of common knowledge and then begin narrowing it down.

He would assume that his readers knew about as much as he had when he had met Sherlock—which was to say about what they picked up from watching mysteries on telly. 

Then, using Sherlock’s own website as reference, he would start laying down basic information—what to look for at a crime scene, how to read tracks left behind, how to analyse dirt or fibres. He would pull examples from cases he had worked on, or that were in Sherlock’s files. He could photograph the packed bookcase here in 221B to give an idea of how much Sherlock had read and studied. (Maybe some pictures of the insides with his handwritten notes to prove that he’d actually read them?) He could talk about some of his experiments … if Sally had understood the science behind soil analysis, would she have been so quick to point fingers?

Sherlock had always complained that John’s blog was too simple, that he skipped all the important details. Well, he would fix that. He would provide classes in “Deduction per Sherlock Holmes” and do everything he could to show that Sherlock had had the knowledge to solve every crime that had come his way. He wouldn’t even have to worry about the Moriarty cases—he would just prove that all the hundreds of others were legitimate.

Maybe he could solicit referrals? He didn’t want to turn his entire blog into Detection 101, after all, so maybe stories from satisfied customers, as it were? Even if not as actual blog posts, but a page of … comments? A forum? He didn’t know enough to even know the terminology for what he wanted, but maybe finding a person to give the blog a tune-up or upgrade or whatever they called it wasn’t a bad idea. He had the money in the bank, he thought, as long as the programmer wasn’t too expensive.

Outside of the mechanics of running the site, the hardest part would be understanding enough of the deductions himself to be able to explain everything. But what better way to feel closer to his departed friend than to immerse himself in his work? If clearing Sherlock’s name gave a purpose to John’s empty days, all the better. 

 

#


	2. Chapter 2

_“—But I wonder what would happen if you… Say what you wanna say, And let the words fall out. Honestly, I wanna see you be brave…”_

#

 

When, full of ideas and starting to feel overwhelmed by notes for blog posts, John paused long enough to check his email, he was astounded.

In the two hours since he’d written that post, he’d gotten 197 comments. 

And, when he’d summoned up the courage to click on them (be brave, he reminded himself), the vast majority of them were positive.

This might just work.

He wasn’t surprised to hear from Greg Lestrade at 6:10. Or, well, he was a little. Since the funeral they had only exchanged about four text messages, but if anything was going to wave a red flag to the Sherlock-sceptics out there, it would be a “Sherlock was innocent” blog post by John Watson, so he wasn’t entirely surprised that Lestrade would call. 

John still wasn’t entirely sure where Lestrade (he couldn’t think of him as Greg these days) had fallen in the did he/didn’t he debate, but he preferred to give him the benefit of the doubt. Lestrade had been the closest thing Sherlock had had to a friend when John came along. He had seen Sherlock at work on countless cases—and he’d called ahead to warn them on That Night.

No, John thought as he headed toward the pub, if he could (mostly) forgive Mycroft, he was more than willing to give Lestrade the benefit of the doubt—to a point. 

And so he readily slid onto the stool next to him at the bar, giving a polite nod as he gave his order to the bartender. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m fine, all things considered,” Lestrade said, “But I’m afraid you’ve lost your mind.”

John felt his eyebrows lifting. “Gee, Greg, why don’t say what you really think?” 

“I just want to know what you think you’re doing, opening this can of worms, John. Things are just starting to calm down.”

“Are you saying I can’t write on my own blog?”

“No, that’s none of my business,” Lestrade said. “What I’m asking is what you hope to accomplish? The people who think Sherlock’s a fraud aren’t going to be convinced by more anecdotes. You and I both know he was the real deal. There’s no way he could have made up all of the cases he solved—especially since he’s cleared cold cases we’ve had on the books since before he was born. But the…” He paused to glance around, making sure nobody was sitting too close, “…the cases with Moriarty? Those are the ones being seriously questioned.”

John just nodded calmly. “I know that. Just like I know that I don’t have the resources to dig into any of those, not on my own. But what I can and will do is prove that Sherlock’s methods were real. I’ve got his blog, and notes on hundreds of cases that he worked on. What I _can_ do is share his methodology with people. If he used, I don’t know, cigarette ash as evidence in X number of cases and was consistent in all of them, doesn’t that prove he didn’t make things up? You saw him, just like I did—taking one look at a person and being able to spot everything from their marital status to their education to what they’d had for breakfast. When I met him, it took about thirty seconds for him to tell me about my sister’s drinking problem, her divorce, my military service, my psychosomatic limp and my therapist all from my hair and _my phone_. Other people might not have entire encyclopaedias in their heads like he did, but that doesn’t mean they can’t understand how he put pieces together.”

“That’s just the thing, John. Most people can’t. God knows I never did.”

“That’s because he never bothered to _explain_ ; he didn’t slow down long enough. He had endless patience for trolling through data, but none for people—it’s one of the reasons Donovan hated him so much. But just because he was lacking social skills doesn’t mean he was a fraud, or that he had been making it up. I just want to prove that he … he was extraordinary.”

He met Lestrade’s gaze without flinching, just taking a sip of his pint and waiting. 

“He was that,” Lestrade finally said. “And I suppose if you’re just trying to educate the public, God help you, there’s no harm. But so help me, John, if you put anything actionable in that blog of yours … you know we’ve already had people suing to get their cases retried, right?”

John nodded. “I bet none of them succeed, though. He was _real_.”

“He was,” Lestrade said. “And he was lucky to have found a friend like you.”

“Like I did anything,” John huffed. “Other than the occasional medical opinion, I just ran around and took notes.”

“You did more than that. You got him to calm down enough for the rest of us to catch up once in a while. He’d actually pause to explain things to you—do you know how unusual that was? Before you showed up, I was lucky to get anything out of him at all, and then I’d usually need to record it so I could play it back at speeds humans could understand. You made him a better person.”

John took another swallow of his beer. “A lot of good that did either of us. He still ended up railroaded, somehow, into suicide and almost the entire country believes he was a fake. I couldn’t stop any of it that night, Greg, but I’m going to do what I can now. I need to, and he deserves it.”

“Okay, then,” Lestrade said. “What can I do to help?”

 

#

 

John had another not-surprise when he got home to find a familiar black sedan outside his flat. He spared a moment to be grateful he’d only had one drink before unlatching the door and pressing the button for the lift. 

“Mycroft,” he said as he walked into his sterile little flat. “Most guests knock.”

“Naturally, I did, John, but as you weren’t home and I was getting some nasty glares from your charming neighbours, I thought you wouldn’t mind if I let myself in. It’s not like you have anything worth stealing, after all.”

John sighed and tossed his keys onto the table next to the door. “That doesn’t make it better, Mycroft. I thought you were the brother whose manners actually stuck? Or do you just not consider me important enough to dust them off for?”

The irritating man was cocking his head thoughtfully as he watched him. “Quite the contrary, I consider you practically family.”

“That’s a scarier thought than it used to be, considering what you do to family,” said John, “Not to mention that I was just a friend of your brother’s.”

“Only friend,” corrected Mycroft, “And the heir to as much of his trust fund as he was able to manage. I can’t help but want to keep an eye on you.” 

“Like I said, scary,” John said, refusing to let the man shake him. “Would you like some tea? Something stronger?”

“I think you’ve had enough to drink today, but tea would be lovely.”

“I had one pint with Lestrade,” John said, protesting, “And a small whiskey earlier—from the bottle you gave me for my birthday that’s only down about three fingers. If you’re afraid that this is some kind of pre-alcoholic danger night….”

“No, no, nothing of the kind,” Mycroft said, voice soothing. “But I do suspect danger of a different kind.”

John sighed and stepped around the counter into his tiny kitchen. “This is about that blog post, isn’t it? Well, like I told Lestrade, I’m not planning on addressing any of the Moriarty cases, I’m not going to interfere with active cases, I’m not even going to fill it up with more anecdotes that nobody will believe. I just want to give people reasons to believe he was the real thing—because we both know he was.”

Mycroft paused, as if catching his breath, and John could almost see him reordering his mental arguments. 

“And what do you hope this will accomplish?”

John leaned on the counter. “I don’t know that it will accomplish anything at all, Mycroft. It’s just something I need to do. I should never have left him alone that night…”

“I didn’t think you had a choice,” Mycroft said, “And it gave you time to visit me.”

John looked over at him. “I hope you’re not expecting an apology. Because you’re not getting one.”

“Quite the contrary, everything you said that night was true. It was a fine demonstration of deduction in your own right. You obviously learned your lessons from Sherlock well.”

“Don’t forget the army,” John said, turning back to the kettle. “Or medical school.”

“Nevertheless,” said Mycroft, “You obviously learned a lot from my brother.”

“I did.” John poured the water into the mugs and carried them back to the sitting room with the teabags still in (if only to see Mycroft’s reaction). “And that’s the point. If an ex-army doctor can learn about deduction, so can my blog readers. I just want to prove that he had solid methodology. He didn’t _need_ to be a fraud. Even without touching Moriarty—because that’s not a topic I’m going to be ready to tackle for months, if ever—I can prove that Sherlock knew what he was doing, and not because he cheated and looked at the answers at the back first … or wrote them himself.”

Mycroft grimaced at his tea but gingerly took a sip. “You’re not afraid of the backlash?”

He shook his head. “That’s kept me silent long enough. If a man isn’t willing to fight for his friends, who will he fight for? I want to do this for Sherlock. I _need_ to do this.”

Mycroft leaned forward to put the barely-touched tea down. “Very well, then. Do try not to do anything stupid though, doctor? I promised my brother I would look out for you if anything happened to him.”

John blinked. “Well, I appreciate that, I suppose, but I’m just writing blog posts here, not running into a battlefield.”

“Battles fought with words can be just as bloody as the ones with live ammunition, John. I just ask you to remember that Sherlock had enemies who might take offense at your efforts to clear his name, and encourage you to be cautious.”

“And if I say I’ve been cautious for too long already?”

Mycroft rose to his feet. “Then one wonders why you haven’t returned to 221B yet. Thank you for the … tea.”

John didn’t move as Mycroft let himself out. As he got up to put the kettle on for a good cup of tea, though, he admitted he had a point. 

If John was going to be brave, it was time to return to Baker Street.

 

#

 

The next few months were revelatory. John laughed at himself, but that catchy little Brave tune had almost become his theme song. (He had laughed for a good five minutes, though, when he learned the singer had originally written the song to encourage a lesbian friend to come out of the closet—considering the rumours that were _still_ going around concerning him and Sherlock, he could only appreciate the irony.)

He had certainly felt like an outcast before beginning this little crusade of his. In some ways he still did, but he chose to ignore that. He was finding the Work itself far too intriguing to care. (He was even starting to capitalize it in his own head, now.)

What had started as a plan to clear Sherlock’s name had become a complete education in itself, and John was fascinated. 

He had started, as planned, by writing instructional posts. It felt almost like he was in school again, writing papers, explaining things in the most basic terms, using examples, extrapolating the various interpretations the data allowed. He used actual cases when possible (with names changed because being brave wasn’t the same as being stupid). He even used medical examples when he could—because diagnosing a disease from its individual symptoms was a lot like deducing a crime scene from its clues. Consulting Detectives did not hold a monopoly on deductive reasoning, after all, and nobody could argue with his medical qualifications.

The thing John hadn’t expected, though, was that trying to duplicate Sherlock’s work—the observations and deductions he performed with such ease—was _fascinating_. Just like he had begun diagnosing strangers on the street when he studied medicine, he found himself watching people in an entirely new way. He was noticing scuffs on shoes, wear-and-tear on clothing. He spotted nervous habits like chewed fingernails or jewellery worn from being twisted on fingernails. He started paying more attention to people’s clothing.

Really, it was almost like having Sherlock whispering in his ear, all the time.

John had been gratified with the reaction to his initial blog posts. Other than a flurry of complaints that he wasn’t addressing the Moriarty/Rich Brook issue and knee-jerk ‘Sherlock-was-a-fraud’ diatribes, most people accepted fairly quickly that he was discussing methodology rather than trying to defend specific cases. 

And, resolutely, he refused to comment when the press came around asking questions, and never talked about Sherlock in public. Brave or not, some things were just too painful. 

The interest in his blog posts, though, had been so positive he had thrown himself into making his blog posts as informative as possible. He wrote about ways of telling when someone was lying. How to spot a disguise. He talked about ways to improve your observational skills, how to practice, to improve your short-term memory. He even talked about Mind Palaces. (He hadn’t even realized were a ‘real’ thing outside Sherlock’s head, but now understood the idea of the loci method of storing memories and had even begun using it himself. He just wished he’d known about it when working for his medical degree, memorizing all those lists of body parts and disease symptoms.) 

The range of topics he was researching at any time became almost wide-ranging enough to impress Sherlock, he thought. He bought manuals for training police detectives and tore through them. He revisited his chemistry skills to recreate some of Sherlock’s experiments. He found himself reading about anything from fashion to industry-specific health hazards to types of fibres in carpets. 

All in all, he was creating a brand-new education for himself as much as for his readers. 

The thing that amazed him was that other people seemed to find it useful, too. He started getting requests for specific topics. (Some of which he used and some he didn’t—he was trying to make it easier to stop crimes, after all, not commit them.) After he’d received multiple requests for videos, he asked his web-master about it and, voila, video blogs. 

The day he got his first request to lecture, he almost fell over in shock. Him? He wrote back to say that, sorry, he was no Sherlock Holmes. (While typing, he chuckled at the thought of Sherlock giving a _lecture_. The entire audience would have either been in tears or comatose by the time he’d finished.) 

No, they responded. We want _you_. We’re very impressed with the thoughtful detail and depth of analysis on your blog and would like to hear from you personally.

Somewhat mollified, he wrote back, saying that he couldn’t possibly talk about Sherlock in public.

When they replied that they weren’t interested in Sherlock, but in his own experiences … well, it was almost as surreal as waking up in England after having been shot in Afghanistan. A total paradigm shift.

Before long, he was getting regular requests for lectures on the Art of Deduction. His blog was being visited and linked by police sites all over the country. And then the world. Suddenly, he had his own reputation for detecting, even if he never worked on live cases.

Or, he didn’t until he received photos from a crime scene in Bristol asking for his help. To his amazement, he was able to pinpoint the trail left by the killer in the third shot. It turned out that spending over six months studying the cases and methods of Sherlock Holmes really _was_ an education.

The approach from a book publisher wanting to turn his blog posts into a book almost didn’t come as a surprise at all.

Almost.

By the time Sherlock had been gone a year, John had developed a reputation for solid deductive reasoning—solid because he backed everything up in language anyone could understand. It just made him sadder, though, knowing that Sherlock had been so much better. Except, Sherlock had never slowed down enough to explain enough, and certainly had never offered to show anyone else how he did what he did.

John could only wonder how differently things might have gone if he had.

 

#

 

With John’s own growing reputation (which still surprised him), it was only a matter of time before he would be contacted by New Scotland Yard for help on a case.

“You’re kidding.”

Lestrade shook his head. “No, we could use a fresh set of eyes, and that means you. Please, John, will you come?”

John stood in the middle of 221B and tried not to get swept away by a sense of déjà vu. “I thought I was banned? That you were told on pain of death and unemployment never to discuss a case with a civilian consultant ever again outside specific interrogation.”

“That was before you performed a miracle and created a reputation for yourself of solid analysis,” Lestrade said, then a faint grin flitted over his face. “It didn’t hurt that not one of Sherlock’s old cases has been overturned, either. You’ve based your blog on his deductive skills and are not only becoming famous on your own, but have his work to back you up.”

“That’s a change, him backing me up,” said John, trying to smile back but feeling wistful instead. “I never thought I’d miss the days when everyone just assumed I was a sidekick.”

“You’ve proven you’re more than that,” Lestrade told him. “I didn’t think you could do it, you know, that first day in the pub when you told me. I’ve never been so glad to be wrong. You’ve proven that Sherlock’s methods are based in scientific fact, and you’ve done it without being reactionary or confrontational about Sherlock’s reputation—and have therefore restored it, not to mention your own.”

“Not completely,” John said. “I haven’t touched the Moriarty/Rich Brook debacle, and you know that…”

“I do, John, but now’s not the time. I need your help with _this_ case. I even have this.” He reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope. Inside, was a letter of authorization from the (new) Chief Superintendent, authorizing Dr John Watson to act as consultant on cases, with a list of the fees he would be paid. “It’s all to be done by the book, above-board. You’ll have to fill in your own paperwork and will be required to obey instructions, but there won’t be any question about whether you’re official. I’ve even got this.” 

More rummaging in his pocket and then he handed John an ID. His own ID, declaring him a Consulting Detective for the NSY.

He looked up to meet Greg’s eyes, feeling his own prickle as he blinked to clear them. “All right, then. Where are we going?”

And they were off.

 

#

 

The first crime scene was … surreal.

Not only were the victim’s remains left in a particularly gruesome way, making it one of the bloodier murder scenes John had witnessed (though it didn’t compare to a battlefield), but the reactions from the officers on site was … interesting.

It had been a year since he’d worked with the police on a case, and there were a lot of new faces in that time. They had heard the rumours, though, but also presumably had seen his blog, so those whispers and sidelong looks were easy to understand and ignore.

The familiar faces, though … John almost stopped in his tracks when he looked up to see Donovan standing there at the police tape, watching him approach. “Couldn’t stay away?”

“I was invited,” he said, with that same feeling of déjà vu. 

“Can’t think why.” She said, arms folded. “It’s not like you’re a trained professional, or anything. You’re just a freak amateur, like Sherlock was.”

John stood firm and balanced as he turned toward her, shoulders level. “You haven’t learned anything, have you, Donovan? Just because you hated the man, you can’t accept that he was actually brilliant at solving crimes—better at it than you are. Maybe he should have taken the time to explain his methods more carefully for the kids in the back of the class, but that doesn’t mean what he was writing on the board wasn’t true. Don’t blame him because you couldn’t keep up. I couldn’t, either.”

She sneered, her lip curling in a parody of a smile. “Then why do we need you at all?”

He just sighed. “Because in the year since my best friend was hounded to his death, Donovan, I’ve actually taken the time to _learn_ something. Maybe if you’d bothered to do the same, they wouldn’t need me. Believe me, I’ve got plenty of other things to do..” He pulled out his ID. “I’m cleared to be here. Now, will you stand aside or do you want to keep throwing mud?”

She looked like she wanted to protest, but just then Greg called, “Come on, John, what are you waiting for?” and she silently lifted the police tape to let him enter.

John gave her a nod and started walking toward the scene, reaching for latex gloves as he went. 

 

#


	3. Chapter 3

_“—Nothing’s gonna hurt you, the way that words do And they settle ‘neath your skin. Kept on the inside, and no sunlight, Sometimes a shadow wins.…”_

#

 

That case was the first of many. He wasn’t called as often as Sherlock—a good thing considering his lecture schedule—but his help was needed often enough to make him feel like he’d finally accomplished something. He always took the time to explain what he’d seen and why he’d looked in the first place. He would describe what kind of mental state the perpetrator was likely in based on the physical evidence, and would clarify what made an enraged killer act differently, cut differently, than a cool one. 

He started to form his own little clique at crime scenes (which he could tell just galled Donovan and Anderson to no end). Everybody still did their jobs, but certain interested faces made a point of being nearby while he was examining the scene. 

He began writing up cases on his blog again, but this time, he focused on the forensic side rather than the anecdotal. He carefully never used real names or places, and he always waited until after any relevant court cases had ended before posting the stories, but—it was useful, being able to describe the investigative aspects of the cases from the very beginning. 

He was beginning to understand why his early posts had irritated Sherlock so much. He had skimmed over so much analytical detail in his desire to tell a good story … but then, he was a much better writer now than he had been then. At the beginning, he was mostly just interpreting Sherlock for normal humans, and using the cases as examples for his irritating genius. Now, though, he was writing about the _cases_. He still tried to make them good stories, but he concentrated on the physical details—and backed them up with posts that delved into the forensics, so as not to bog down the stories with too much science.

He just wondered if Sherlock would be any happier with the result.

He tried not to compare himself to Sherlock in his blog posts. He knew that, compared to his friend, he was still appallingly slow, and he would never have quite the store of data in his own head that Sherlock had had in his own. (These days, Google was John’s best friend.) He liked to think, though, that even if Sherlock would have been frustrated at his slowness, he would at least have appreciated his results. John was more than happy to play tortoise to Sherlock’s hare … it was reaching the finish line that mattered.

As they were approaching the second anniversary of Sherlock’s death, though, John started to think about Moriarty. 

He had resolutely avoided discussing any details from any of the cases he knew the madman had been involved in. He had never mentioned proper astronomy detail in an art forgery, or the dangers of botox injections by a person with a grudge. He didn’t talk about pools or bomb vests or fairy tales. He particularly never mentioned Hansel and Gretel or sugar traces in soil analysis. And he never discussed the difficulties of breaking into the Tower of London.

But … he had reached a point where this was starting to feel like an omission rather than something he hadn’t gotten to yet. 

There were still countless subjects he could write blog posts about. The possibilities of murder by bee sting or insulin overdose, the paw prints left by different domestic animals … if there was one thing he’d learned since following Sherlock Holmes, it was that _any_ detail could be useful. _All_ information was potentially useful (even if he’d continued to insist that a heliocentric solar system was irrelevant to daily life.) 

The point was that John could keep on with his general-knowledge classes-by-blog indefinitely. There would always be more to write about. Except—easy as it was to get distracted by his newfound popularity—he had started this crusade in the first place to restore Sherlock’s reputation. 

To a degree, he already had. By laying the proof of Sherlock’s deductive science in front of his readers, he had proven that Sherlock had been legitimate—without ever saying “here’s the proof,” or “he was real,” or “you idiots were wrong” on his blog. He had proven it by demonstration—both in blog posts but also in his own detective work. 

These days, almost nobody mocked Sherlock to his face.

It had been long enough, though, that _not_ addressing the Moriarty fiasco was starting to look suspicious—as if Sherlock had had something to hide.

Part of John understood this. Even at the height of the hysteria, very few people believed Sherlock could have faked _every_ case. There had been too many people coming out with stories about private cases, too many police cases that he had solved. But the Moriarty thing … that had been the sticking point. 

Too many people were willing to believe that, out of boredom with “normal” cases, Sherlock had created an archenemy. They _wanted_ to believe that Sherlock had somehow created the myth of Moriarty. The fact that his identity had been whispered for so long, with the man never seen … it made a better story if Sherlock had somehow been behind all of it. 

The more time John spent on esoteric details of investigation at this point, the more it looked like he was deliberately circling around the entire Moriarty topic. That would mean either (1) he had known/suspected the masquerade all along or (2) that he was afraid to look too closely because of what he might find.

Which meant, he _had_ to look.

 

#

 

His first post on the topic was subtle. He took a case that few people knew Moriarty was involved in—his first with Sherlock, the Pink Lady case with the serial-murder cabbie. 

He talked about the string of suicides, all with the same poison. He discussed how each person had been found in places they would never have gone. How invisible cab-drivers were, that nobody gave any thought to the fact that all the victims had gotten a cab the day they died.

And then he talked about how their deaths were made to look like suicides. No signs of coercion. No visible threat. Just the bodies and self-administered poison.

But, he asked, why had no-one considered the ways a person could be forced to suicide? The cabbie’s game with two separate pills was bizarre, he admitted, but he had also held a gun on his victims. He had forcibly driven them to isolated locations. He could have blackmailed them. He could have threatened their loved ones. He could even have promised to help their families if the victim did as they were told. 

Just because the victims took the pills themselves—just because they did technically kill themselves—didn’t mean they hadn’t been forced to do it. 

The police, he said, should have wondered at the coincidence of a string of seemingly happy people who suddenly decided to kill themselves with the same poison. They should have wondered that there were no notes from any of them. They should have studied CCTV footage to see that they all had hailed a cab in their last moments, and wouldn’t at least one of the cameras have seen the cab number? What else had been on surveillance footage? Had there truly been no other forensic data from any of the scenes? No stray hairs or footprints from the killer? No physical evidence of any kind that a second person had been in the room, had forced the suicide?

The lesson to be learned, here, he wrote, was that you can never assume that what appears to be a suicide was not forced. In the absence of other, clear signs like depression, terminal illness, or suicide notes, a good investigator should look deeper when faced by an otherwise unexplained deaths—even if they look like a straight-forward suicide. Sometimes suicides did happen unexpectedly, it was true, but sometimes they were the sign of more sinister forces at work.

 

#

 

Within minutes of posting, he received a text message.

“We need to talk.”

He looked out the window to see a familiar black car pulling up on Baker Street and, with a nod, John headed down the stairs. Fifteen minutes later, they were at the Diogenes Club. It still was not one of John’s favourite places, but there was a sense of symmetry here that he couldn’t argue with.

“John, please have a seat,” Mycroft greeted him, waving him into the same chair he’d used during that last confrontation the night Sherlock jumped. “May I get you anything? A scotch? Perhaps some drinkable tea?”

John gave a tight smile at the reminder of the night he’d resurrected his blog. “No tea, thank you, but a drink would be welcome.” 

Mycroft waited until he had his glass in his hand before saying, “You’ve decided to address James Moriarty on your blog.”

John simply nodded. “I’ve gotten to a point where it’s starting to feel like a topic I’m avoiding for more ominous reasons than just not wanting to poke a sleeping bear.”

He sat calmly while Mycroft studied him, unshaken by the steady regard. He couldn’t tell what elements and factors Mycroft was judging and measuring, but he was weighing something, and John was content to sip his drink while he waited. 

Finally, Mycroft said, “You continue to surprise me, John.”

John lifted his eyebrows. He did? “I didn’t think that was possible.”

“It’s not at all usual, no, but you are one of the few men who has succeeded—and more than once, which is exceedingly rare.”

“What can I say, I’m a man of mystery,” John said, going for a touch of humour, if only because he knew how little Mycroft appreciated being teased. Twisting the man’s tail was too entrenched a habit from Sherlock to entirely forego.

“The thing is, you really shouldn’t be. You come across as calm and steady, but not complex, and yet you have this capacity to do and see things most people do not.”

“Hidden depths,” John said easily, “What are you getting at?”

“I am just absorbing the fact that it’s all too easy to underestimate you, even when evidence of your capability is right in front of me. Your work on your blog has been exemplary, you know. I’ve wanted to tell you how impressed I’ve been that you’ve been able to make such strides toward restoring Sherlock’s good name without ever specifically defending him.” He held up his hand. “Don’t take that the wrong way. It is a compliment of the highest order. By defending the work and not the man, you’ve in effect defended both of them, but in such a way that cannot be protested. It was a masterful stroke.”

John ducked his head a bit at the unexpected praise. “Coming from the British Government, that’s quite a compliment. Thank you. People do seem to think army training means you attack all your problems head on with a gun, but there’s a lot to be said for an oblique approach—in medicine as well as war—so why not on a blog? 

He sipped at his drink, and when Mycroft remained quiet, said, “I can’t imagine you’ve called me here to object to my clearing Sherlock’s name, so I’m wondering if there’s something you want me to say or not say for reasons you probably can’t explain?”

“And the surprises continue,” murmured Mycroft. “That is actually why I wanted to see you, yes. Even two years later, the topic of Moriarty is a sensitive one.”

“His wasn’t exactly a one-man operation, either,” John said carefully.

“No,” agreed Mycroft. “And in many ways, we are fortunate that they have not … protested … the man’s sudden absence from the scene.”

“You’ve never really mentioned that,” John said. “Moriarty’s whereabouts after forcing Sherlock’s hand.”

Mycroft’s poker face didn’t slip at all as he gazed at John, measuring only he knew what. John just swirled his own drink in his glass, unbothered by the Holmes scrutiny. He, at least, had nothing to hide. “James Moriarty is dead, John.”

Which would be exactly what he expected to hear from Mycroft, thought John. But that didn’t mean it was true.

“Hmm.” He looked up at the thoughtful noise Mycroft made. “There is perhaps something you should know. I can tell you the real reason Sherlock jumped that day, why the matter of Moriarty is still more serious than you might realize.”

John’s head rose of its own accord, he was certain, because at Mycroft’s words, he froze in place, unable to do anything other than stare. After a moment he managed, “He … why?”

Mycroft reached under the papers on the table next to him and pulled out a tablet. “I hope you won’t hold it against me, that I’ve kept this footage from you, John. I thought that … knowing … would make things harder for you, but like you, I believe we’ve reached a critical point and the time is right. I’ll warn you, though, that this is difficult to watch.”

John couldn’t even summon the words for what he was feeling. Mycroft had footage? Of Sherlock’s jump? He knew why? Had always known? Good God, what was he about to see?

Numbly he held out his hand to take the tablet, then tapped Play. The sounds of the BeeGees’ ‘Staying Alive’ began to play and … there was Sherlock, standing tall and resolute as he crossed the rooftop to where Moriarty was sitting.

He barely breathed as he watched the film—Moriarty circling Sherlock like a shark scenting blood in the water. Talking about fairy tales and villains. Pushing Sherlock until his friend grabbed his coat and forced him over the edge of the building … and then. Oh, God. That was how he did it. 

He hadn’t threatened Sherlock.

He had threatened John. And Mrs Hudson. And Greg.

What little control John had over his hands failed him now as he felt the blood draining from his face, leaving a tingling, unreal chill. No. Please, no, he thought as he continued to watch his friend, looking beaten, step up on the ledge. 

Even knowing how this would end, he couldn’t help the surge of hope when Sherlock laughed and hopped back down to the roof, confident once again, sure he’d found a loophole. He watched as Moriarty actually looked impressed, shaking Sherlock’s hand, and then … God, no. Secure in his chair, John reeled along with Sherlock as he watched the realization cross his friend’s face. He would have to jump anyway.

With a shaking finger, he paused the video as Sherlock pulled out his phone, not quite able to bear reliving that conversation just now.

He sat, unable to move, unable to think, for a long moment, uncaring that Mycroft’s laser gaze was studying him. Good bloody Christ, he thought, the image of Sherlock at the top of that roof playing over and over in his mind, only this time, he could almost see Moriarty right behind him, hands spread out to _push_.

Finally, he reached over to his glass and downed its contents in one swallow. “You’ve known the whole time?” he asked.

“Most of it, yes,” Mycroft said quietly. “The audio was recorded by Sherlock on his phone—which he tossed to the roof just before … well, before. The video was from a webcam that he planted earlier. It streamed its signal directly to my office. We combined the two later.”

John nodded, staring back down at the tablet screen, frozen with Sherlock standing on the edge, phone to his ear, about to lie to his best friend.

“And this wasn’t released right away because … it was too sensitive?”

“People weren’t ready to listen. They could have chosen to interpret this as an argument between co-conspirators, or an attempt for the underling to triumph over his boss. People can wilfully misbelieve anything.”

John’s brain felt numb, thinking was like trudging through ankle-deep treacle. He could understand that, he thought. It was the same reason he hadn’t started his blog by shouting Sherlock’s innocence to the world. Laying groundwork was just as important as the final push.

But at the same time, part of him was screaming. How could Mycroft have kept this to himself? Or at least not told _him_? Two years of doubt and anguish that could have been prevented. Sherlock’s name would have been cleared long ago, and people would have known that he’d died for…

For him.

Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, too, but mostly for him, he thought, remembering the way Sherlock’s voice had cracked as he’d said John’s name.

Unsure what expression was even on his face, he looked over at Mycroft and saw sympathy there, and concern … and a hint of something else. “He didn’t mention you,” he said, realizing.

“No, but then, I was never one of my brother’s main concerns. It was always the other way around.”

Then, somehow, the shock actually started working for him. Stunned and battered though he felt at this moment, the (small) part of his brain that was working was working very, very well—undistracted by emotions or anything other than what he had just seen. “There was never an argument between you after Baskerville, was there? It was never a betrayal. You were distancing yourself, so Moriarty would underestimate what you would do for Sherlock.”

A flash of approval in Mycroft’s eyes. “Well done, John. You’re correct. Sherlock and I were working together to bring him down, but … he out-maneuvered us in the end. We knew— _you_ knew—about the assassins, but we hadn’t expected them to be deployed against you and the others. It was a masterstroke, but one which there was no time to stop.”

Deep inside, John could feel his heart breaking, knowing that his best friend had sacrificed himself for _him_ , when John would have done anything to keep that from happening. “I …” 

He couldn’t even finish the sentence, or figure out what he wanted to say, what he was feeling. All he knew was that it was all so very unfair.

He stared down at the screen again, and thought about Sherlock’s brilliance, how he had been unstoppable, unmatchable … and then been brought down by a snake with lies. He remembered Moriarty’s words at the pool. (“ _I’ll burn the heart out of you._ ”) He thought about the way he’d been tricked into leaving the hospital that night, lured away by a phone call that he was sure was due to Sherlock trying to protect him.

He thought about the desperate look on Sherlock’s face in the video, when Moriarty shot himself.

With eyes burning, he looked up at Mycroft, considering the man before him who he was sure would have done anything in his power to save his little brother. “What can I do?”

 

#


	4. Chapter 4

_—“You can be amazing, You can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug....”_

#

 

John left the Diogenes Club on legs that felt slightly numb, as if they weren’t quite in contact with the ground. He was still struggling to absorb everything he had just learned, there wasn’t enough brain-power left to direct his feet, he thought, almost giggling. 

It must be the shock, he thought, as he climbed into the waiting car, the precious flash drive secure in his pocket.

They were halfway to Baker Street when he got a text message. A request from Greg for help with a case. He hesitated—could he face Greg right now, with this new knowledge of Sherlock’s jump still eclipsing his brain? He could beg off with an excuse about preparing a lecture, but … no. Leaning forward, he redirected the driver, and before long, he was facing another crime scene.

“Ronald Adair,” Greg told him. “Killed by a gunshot in his locked, third-floor study, with no gun in sight. Nobody heard a shot, he was alive at 10:00 pm when his wife went to bed, but dead when they looked for him at breakfast. The maid reports hearing a crash around eleven, but … it’s a weird one.”

“Weird, indeed,” John said, looking around. “Sherlock would have loved it.” 

The words slipped out before he realized. He _never_ talked about Sherlock at a crime scene, but after watching the video, he was so fresh in his mind… He felt closer than he had in years. 

Ignoring Greg’s look of surprise, John began to prowl around the room, pausing to look out the windows. There were four of them, one for each compass point of what was essentially a tower room. Two were propped open, but there was nothing outside that could have served as cover for a sniper. The third he looked at showed a hairline crack in its stained glass. The hillside distant was far, but … He looked back at the body, mentally tracing trajectories, and then looked down at his feet.

“It was a sniper,” he said. “He shot from over there through the open window, and then once Adair was dead, shot out the support for the window.” He pointed to the splintered wood half-hidden in the shadows. “There’s a crack in the glass from when the window fell closed. That would be the noise the maid heard.”

Greg was slowly shaking his head—doubtful, but not convinced. “A sniper? At that distance? At night? And the calibre is all wrong…”

John was back at the window, considering, then gave a firm nod. “I could make that shot, with the right equipment, and a lot of snipers have their own specialized guns. I knew a man in Afghanistan who had modified an air rifle for hunting—he could get extraordinary shots…” His voice drifted off as he turned back to the victim, thinking hard. “Do you have the bullet?”

Hawkins handed him the evidence bag, and John gave a low whistle. “I … You might want to check to see if Sebastian Moran is in the country. He used to be a Colonel in the army, was one of the finest shots I’ve ever known, and … used to use a gun that fired rounds just like this.”

“And you just happen to know him?” This was Donovan, standing in the corner with her arms folded, the picture of scepticism.

“I was in the army, you know,” John said, refusing to take offense. “Medic or not, I was the best shot in my unit, and I received some extra training … and some of it was by one Colonel Sebastian Moran. I’m not saying it’s him, but he might have some information for you. Tread carefully, though. He’s got a prickly temper.”

“You want to come? Since you know him?” Greg asked.

John considered. “I … don’t know. I’ve got some other things I need to do today… Call me when you find him and I’ll let you know?” 

Greg nodded, and John started toward the door. “Oh, and Greg, can you stop by the flat later? I’ve got something unrelated to show you.”

After divesting himself of the protective clothing, John walked back outside, squinting in the bright sun. Could it really only be 1:00 in the afternoon? It had already been a full day, and there was so much still to do.

His ride from Mycroft had long-since left, and he considered catching a cab, but a frisson of superstition ran up his spine at the thought. No, today, he would skip cabs and reminders of Sherlock and suicides. It was a beautiful day, and the walk would do him good. 

He started up the street, thinking hard. The morning’s revelations would change his blog strategy a bit. That video was solid evidence that Sherlock had been coerced by Moriarty—no matter what he was calling himself. If John had been structuring his posts all along to lay a solid groundwork that would narrow to support his argument, then he had just been handed the piece that was going to hold everything together. 

It wouldn’t change what he had to do, but he needed to be sure that all the pieces linked together. He couldn’t allow any flaw in his argument, in his presentation, to weaken his case. Before, he had been going on faith that Sherlock deserved to be vindicated, but now? Now he had solid proof that Sherlock deserved every accolade that had been held back. Innocent. Real. Falsely Accused. Good Man.

Hero.

And so, as he walked, John laid out his blogging strategy in his head. He’d talked about coerced suicides already (and thank God he’d written that before seeing that wrenching video, he thought), so his next post would be…

A young man dashing down the street, phone to his ear, collided with John, knocking him down. “So sorry,” he said, picking himself and already starting to continue on his way. “You’re not hurt, right?” he called, jogging backwards. And then he was gone and John was pulling himself to his knees with a handy metal fence along the pavement. Was he invisible these days? He was getting tired of being knocked over by people too hurried to even stop…

He stopped, staring at the wall in front of him. Was that…? He spun around, scanning windows and rooftops and … there, an open window with just a hint of a waving curtain. Empty now, he was sure, but … he looked back at the chip in the wall, and then pulled out his phone. 

“Greg? I think someone just tried to shoot me.”

 

#

 

And so it was much later when he got home. He still didn’t know if the man who’d knocked him down had deliberately saved him or if it had been serendipity, but he had to be grateful. Judging by the trajectory, the shot would have gone straight through his head if he hadn’t fallen.

The fact that the bullet was the same type that had killed Ronald Adair didn’t make him feel any better, either.

He still had the flash drive, though. It had been one of the first things he’d checked, though he couldn’t imagine why anyone would have wanted to steal it (assuming they even knew he had it). It was just a copy, after all. Mycroft would have easily been able to give him a new one.

Still, he thought, this had made one thing easier. 

“Can you come up for a few minutes?” he asked Greg as the car pulled up at Baker Street. “It’s important.”

Before long, he was plugging the flash drive into his laptop and warning Greg, just like Mycroft had warned him. “I only saw this for the first time this morning, and I’m warning you. It’s hard to watch, but you need to see it, okay?”

“What is this about, John? I’ve got a sniper to catch.”

“I know you do, but trust me—you really _need_ to see this.” John called up the video and then turned away to pour a drink, placing it next to Greg’s hand.

“Thanks, but I’m working, John.”

“I know,” he said, “Just hit Play.”

John couldn’t help but watch as the video played again, and it was just as wrenching as it had been before. He staggered into the other desk chair as Sherlock’s last minutes streamed by. This time, though, Greg continued the video through his and Sherlock’s conversation. You could only hear Sherlock’s side of it, but John found himself filling in his own replies, and then, as Sherlock spread his arms, you could hear John’s voice screaming his name, and then there was nothing but static.

Like John, Greg’s first act was to grab and down the waiting drink. “Christ, John,” was all he said.

“I know.”

“He was… That was _Moriarty_.”

“I know.”

“Jesus … he jumped for _us_.”

“I know.”

There was silence for a long, endless moment, then, “Mycroft?”

“This morning. After reading today’s blog post, he felt it was time.”

Greg looked as stunned as John had been. “He knew?”

“He was waiting for the right time, he said, which I can understand, I suppose, but don’t think I’m not furious with him for keeping this from us.”

“Especially you,” Greg said. “You deserved to know.”

John wasn’t sure how to react to that. Part of him agreed, but realistically, did he have any more need to know than the Detective Inspector who had put his career on the line countless times for Sherlock? Or the woman who had practically been a mother to him? “We all did,” he said finally. “But now that I know, I’m making sure you do, too—and Mrs Hudson as soon as she gets home from the shops. The thing is, though—I discussed this with Mycroft and he agrees. I’ll be posting it to my blog later.”

“Yeah, yeah, right… It’s the right thing to do.” Greg just looked shattered as he nodded, face blank. “Christ, _Sherlock_.”

“I know. I’d say he fulfilled his promise, wouldn’t you?”

“What’s that?”

“He not only was a great man, Greg, he was a good one. An extraordinary one.”

Greg tipped his glass back, swallowing the last few drops at the bottom. “Yes, he was. And so are you. Do me a favour and send me a text when you post it? I want to see Donovan’s face when she watches it.”

A feral grin spread across John’s face. “Oh, yes, but only if you promise to record it for me.”

“It’s a deal,” Greg said, and then, pulling his DI authority around him like a coat, he went on his way, leaving John staring again at the image on the computer screen: Sherlock, arms poised to fly.

 

#

 

For the rest of the afternoon, John worked on his blog post.

It was one of the hardest things he’d ever written—this after two years of difficult, challenging writing. He remembered now why he tried to keep his posts as dispassionate as possible these days. Writing about facts was remarkably easy. Writing with his heart … wrenchingly hard.

Because, this time, no matter how he tried to stick to the facts, it was impossible to write about Sherlock _jumping off a building_ —to save John’s life, nonetheless—without getting emotional. His guilt and pride and loss infused every sentence. The entry positively dripped with it, oozing with both cloying sweetness and the sharp, bitter, acidic pain by turns.

He actively fought with this post.

At one point, he paced the room, despairing he would ever find the words to say. He wished he could just post the video without comment, like he had with that news link the day after Sherlock jumped, but found he couldn’t do it. He owed it to Sherlock to write this, and to write it _well_.

Pausing long enough to show Mrs Hudson the video (plying her with tea for a change) was almost a relief.

Finally, he cued up the song that had started him on this road almost two years ago. And with the refrain sounding in his ears (“ _Say what you wanna say, And let the words fall out. Honestly, I wanna see you be brave...._ ”), he started to write.

 

#

 

_It’s been almost two years since my friend Sherlock Holmes jumped to his death from St Bartholomew’s Hospital._

_As much as I’ve tried to understand why a man who seemed to care so little for public opinion would kill himself because of it, I’ve always been left with questions. The pieces just didn’t add up, and all I was left with was the memory of what he told me on the phone just before he jumped._

_I’ve never told anyone what he told me, in those last moments. Not because it was too personal, or too hard (though it was, impossibly, incredibly hard)—but because it was at that moment that, for the first time ever, that Sherlock Holmes lied to me._

_Yes. He lied to me._

_And for the last two years, I’ve wondered why._

_Why would my best friend lie to me at that crucial moment? Even at his most “heartless” (because he was never truly heartless), Sherlock was never a cruel man, and I can’t think of many things that would be crueller than to not only make me watch him kill himself, but to make it even harder by _lying_ to me first. _

_Because, that day, Sherlock Holmes told me he was a fraud._

_But why would he do that? I’ve gone over it and over it. I’ve gone through hundreds of cases he worked on to prove that he was the real thing. And he was. I’ve never doubted it._

_So, if Sherlock was not a fraud (which he was not), and if he was not cruel (because he wasn’t), why would he have chosen that moment of all moments to LIE?_

_I may never have all the answers, but today? Today I have some of them._

_One thing is now crystal clear._

_Sherlock Holmes lied to me to protect me._

_Sherlock Holmes jumped off that building to save my life, as well as that of the two other people he was closest to._

_If that’s not the act of a man who cares, deeply, I don’t know what is._

_I ask you to watch the video posted below. I warn you that it’s gut-wrenching. It’s hard to watch—the hardest thing I’ve ever sat through._

_But it shows EXACTLY why Sherlock Holmes jumped from that building. And it wasn’t because he was a fraud. It wasn’t because he couldn’t bear the turn in public opinion, or because he was ashamed of being caught out in a crime¬—because none of those were true._

_No, Sherlock Holmes jumped because he was a hero._

_He died proving that he was, in fact, not only a great, but a truly GOOD man, who was willing to sacrifice himself for others._

_I may never understand why he lied to me, but I will never forget._

_Thank you, Sherlock._

 

#

 

Taking a hard breath, he uploaded the video and moved to click POST when a voice came from the doorway.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Dr Watson.”

 

#

 

John’s hand froze, and he turned toward the door. “Colonel Moran.”

“Nice to see you again, Watson. Now move your hand away from the computer.”

Quietly, John did as he was told, keeping his eyes on the man standing with a gun in his living room. “You’re a literary critic now, Moran?”

The man chuckled. “Hardly—not that what you write is exactly literature. No, I’m here to prevent you from making a mistake.”

John folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Really? What kind of mistake is that?” It infuriated him that Moran looked so relaxed, as if he wasn’t taking this seriously. 

“Up until now, your blog has been, well, almost amusing. Your little attempts at deductions and crime-solving have been entertaining enough to watch. Believe me, I don’t begrudge you your new career, even if it based on the work of a liar who cost a better man than he his life.”

John ignored the reference to Moriarty, though he could almost feel his teeth grinding. “So you are here to critique.”

Moran shook his head. “No, I’m here to give you a chance, Watson. I have no problem with you helping the police put away the stupid criminals. I mean, really, they just get in the way of us professionals. Most of them deserve to be caught. So far as I’m concerned, you’re doing good work.”

“And yet, here you are in my flat with a gun,” John said, mentally tallying all the things within reach that could be used as a weapon.

“I find it helps people focus when I want them to pay attention,” Moran said.

John kept his expression polite as he nodded. “Well, I’m paying attention. You like what I’ve been doing, but you object to the entry I haven’t even posted yet.”

“Before today, you haven’t attacked my boss.”

“Most people just send nasty e-mails when they disagree.”

Moran smiled. “I’m not most people. You’d think you’d remember that.”

Images from Afghanistan flashed behind John’s eyes. “Oh, I do. I gather you work for Moriarty these days, or his network, or whatever?”

“Something like that. And you’re about to make a mistake.”

John glanced at his computer screen, cursor poised over the POST button. “You don’t want me defending Sherlock.”

“I don’t want you muddying the waters by publishing information that’s better kept a secret.”

John could feel the quizzical expression on his face. “You do realize we have a free press, don’t you? And that whether I defend Sherlock or not, it’s going to get out there eventually?”

Moran tipped his head. “Maybe. But not today. Not unless you want to traumatize your poor landlady when she comes up to find you with a hole in the head, blood everywhere. Very messy.”

“You’d rather kill me that let me write a blog post.” John couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice. Not that he didn’t understand the importance of this particular post, with all its life-changing possibilities, but really? It was worth shooting him over? Moriarty and Sherlock were dead. It’s not like this was going to change that.

“It’s entirely your call, Watson. You can keep doing exactly what you’re doing, helping put the stupid bad guys away, living your quiet little life undisturbed. Or you can start stirring things up that are better left alone, which would have very bad, very immediate consequences.” Moran shifted the gun, just enough to draw John’s attention. “I’m just trying to be a friend, here, but it’s your choice.”

John stared at him. Seriously? If he posted this blog entry, Moran would actually kill him? 

He turned to look at his computer screen, the post he had agonized over waiting to address the world. 

Because it was the kind of post that could change the world—not just his little corner of it. John’s blog had developed a reputation for excellence that had an international following. Sherlock’s reputation might not have been world-wide before his jump, but it was now, and it was all through John’s efforts.

If he were to die now… what would that do to the cause he’d worked so hard for these last two years? Would his murder solidify Sherlock’s reputation? Or would it all crumble away?

He liked to think that he had laid a strong foundation, here. Sherlock’s (and his) reputation should be secure. Knowing public opinion, an assassination would probably help solidify it, if anything, like an artist’s work increasing in value after their death. But if he backed down now, what would that say?

Sherlock had jumped off a building to save his life, he thought. His friend would likely want him to live, to continue the Work. He could almost hear him now, “ _It’s the Work that’s important, John. I don’t care what people think of me_.” 

Except … John did.

Sherlock had given his life to save John’s. Surely John could do the same?

He looked back at Moran. “You’re not my friend,” he told him. “But Sherlock was.” 

Reaching quickly, he hit POST on his computer screen and then shut the lid, knowing the log-in screen would delay Moran if he wanted to try deleting the post. It would buy time for the video to get out there into the cloud, or whatever they were calling it these days. Hopefully it will go viral and be copied before Moran or Moriarty’s people can do anything about it he thought wistfully, just as there was a noise behind him and everything went black.

 

#


	5. Chapter 5

_—“… Everybody’s been there, everybody’s been stared down by the enemy. Fallen for the fear, and done some disappearing, Bowed down to the mighty. Don’t run.”_

#

 

Groaning, John woke, wondering why it seemed like such a surprise. Then he remembered. He had expected to wake up dead … and with this headache, he almost wished he had. He lifted his head, blinking blearily as he took stock. He was still in 221B, but this time, he was tied to his chair. 

Moran was standing over his computer, cursing, and John almost smiled at the frustration as the man pounded a fist on the table. After living with Sherlock for eighteen months, John had become an expert at computer passwords. Sherlock had always cracked them in the end, but it had taken him longer and longer. John was fairly sure Sebastian Moran didn’t have quite same skills with computers that Sherlock had had.

Trying to keep his head still, he squinted at the clock, trying to figure out how long he’d been out. Long enough for word to start spreading about his post? The video? He didn’t know how the internet worked (did anyone?), but in cases like these, he was fairly sure that the longer it stayed up, the better it would be. Someone would have copied it by now, wouldn’t they? So that even if the original video were taken down, it would still be ‘out there’? 

Don’t forget Mycroft, he told himself, trying to think past the blinding headache. He had the original video. Even if something happened to John’s, he would make sure it was released. Of course he would. So that would be all right.

So, why was he still here? Why hadn’t Moran shot him already?

“Do you have the Caps Lock turned off?” he asked as Moran pounded the table again. “Sometimes it makes it harder to enter the correct password.”

Moran rounded on him with a growl. “You need to take that post down.”

“Why would I do that?” John asked mildly. 

“Because I’ll kill you,” the man said, voice deep with threat.

John shrugged as well as the ropes around his shoulders would allow. “Well, I thought I’d be dead already, frankly, and with this headache you’d be doing me a kindness, so really, I don’t see any incentive, here, since I wanted the post up in the first place.”

Moran stepped forward, looming with practiced ease. “Oh, I could give you incentive, Watson. I know lots of ways to make that little bump on the head seem minor. I can introduce you to pain like you’ve never known before—you thought being shot was bad? Child’s play next to what I can do. I’m trying to be nice here, and let you off easy, but believe me. I don’t have to.”

Leaning his head back to look up as he made his threats just made John feel more light-headed, so he stared straight ahead at Moran’s chest. “I believe you, all of it,” he said. “Which makes me wonder why you haven’t killed me yet. Wouldn’t Jim have some really top-notch hackers on hand who could take down that blog post without my help? Or don’t you have his address book?”

Moran just stared at him now, brow furrowed. “Do you _want_ me to kill you?”

“Other than as a means of stopping this headache, you mean? Not particularly,” said John. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not selling out my best friend. I wrote that post for him. I only found out this morning that he jumped to save my life, and … I owe him this.”

The gunman looked like he wanted to tear his hair out as he stared at John. “So don’t you think he’d want you to bloody well do the smart thing here? Wouldn’t he want you to live?”

John started to nod, but thought better of it as the pain in his head flared. “I’m sure he would, but he doesn’t get to make that decision. Besides, aren’t you going to kill me anyway?”

Moran was leaning back against the table and looked completely flummoxed. “That was the plan, yes, but you’re intriguing me, Watson. This doesn’t make sense.”

“You can blame the concussion, if you like,” John told him. “It’s probably addled my thinking. It’s okay, Moran. You told me you would kill me if I posted it, and I did … it’s not like you didn’t give me fair warning. Though I _would_ prefer you didn’t hurt Mrs Hudson, if it’s all the same to you.”

Moran looked back at the computer, then at John. “What do I have to do to get you to give me your password?”

“I honestly can’t,” said John. “The computer has a fingerprint reader in it that works in conjunction with the typed password—even Sherlock would have had trouble with that one. And no, I’m not going to type it for you, so don’t even ask.”

“So, you really do want to die.”

“Not particularly,” said John, “But I’ve done what I set out to do. And, honestly, if there in an afterlife, I’m kind of looking forward to seeing Sherlock again.”

Moran let out a roar of frustration and grabbed his gun from the table, raising it to John’s head in one, smooth movement. John just sat and tried not to show any fear or pain. Except for the concussion, he was remarkably content. Sherlock’s name would be cleared and he was going out protecting his friend—just like Sherlock had protected him. There were worse endings, he thought, just as Moran shifted his aim and fired into John’s bad shoulder.

Damn. That hurt, he thought, as he felt it sear across his skin. That hurt a lot, enough to distract him from his headache, which suddenly wasn’t as much of a relief as he’d hoped. He glanced down at his arm and saw it was more a graze than anything. A really painful graze, but nothing immediately life-threatening. Which didn’t make sense.

“I don’t understand,” he said to Moran, gasping a bit against the pain. “You really are more interested in killing that blog post than in killing me, and I don’t understand why.”

Moran barked out a laugh, one harsh syllable of self-loathing. “Don’t you? Think about why you’re so desperate to get it up … now imagine if you were on my side. Wouldn’t you do anything to keep people from seeing your friend die like that?”

“Friend…” John breathed. “I didn’t realize…”

“That Moriarty had friends? Well, he didn’t,” Moran told him, an echo of a sob haunting his voice. “He just had me.”

Oh, God, thought John, closing his eyes. Now _that_ really hurt. Memories of a misty graveyard on a moor drifted behind his eyelids. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am.”

“See? I knew you would be,” Moran said, eyes bright. “We’re more alike than you’d probably want to admit. We’re both trying to salvage the reputations of the men we loved, it’s just that we’re on opposite sides.”

John figured this wasn’t the time to protest that he and Sherlock were just friends, not if his supposed relationship with his friend was one of the only things keeping him alive at the moment. “There are some similarities, I suppose. Military careers, both crack shots … though you’re a better shot than me,” he said generously. “I’m better at medicine, though.”

“I know my share of anatomy, though, Doctor,” said Moran, moving the gun so it was facing the other shoulder. “Now, are you going to help me, or not?”

“What do you hope to accomplish?” John asked him. “Even if I take the post down, they’re both still dead. People made up their minds about them long ago. It doesn’t matter how loyal we are—it ultimately doesn’t change anything.”

“Are you kidding?” Moran looked actually surprised. “You really do believe that, don’t you? That all your blog posts have done nothing to restore the—vastly over-rated, may I say—reputation of Sherlock Holmes? That it’s just so many pixels floating in ether, or whatever they do?”

John started to shrug, but stopped with a wince as he felt the warm blood oozing down his skin. “I don’t know. I hope that they have, but I haven’t asked anyone. No, really,” he said when Moran made a sceptical noise. “It’s not something I’ve talked about with anyone. I don’t talk about Sherlock. At all, not until today. I’ve analysed and explained his methods, but I haven’t talked about _him_. Anyone who’s tried to interview me or ask me questions … I just don’t. I think about him, all the time, but you talk about the influence my blog has had? The only thing I know for sure is that it’s been useful for other investigators, because I get asked questions about techniques or analysis all the time—I even lecture on them, God help all those students—but has any of this, any of the work I’ve done the last two years, done anything to help my best friend? I truly have no idea.”

It was disgust now in Moran’s face, along with a shade of pity. “Then you’re as much of an idiot as all the rest of them, Watson. I thought you were loyal. _I’m_ loyal. Everything I’ve done for the last two years has been in Jim Moriarty’s name—trying to salvage his name, his life’s work even as it fell apart piece by piece. It’s as if, without him, none of it is working. His network is falling apart and I don’t know why and can’t stop it—there’s just no point anymore. I thought you’d understand. It’s why I was willing to give you a chance. There’s a man, I thought, that understood what I was going through. We might be playing on opposing teams, but we both understand the game, both have captains we’d do anything for … but it turns out, you’ve been trying to sit it out all this time, just looking after your own hide.”

He moved the gun back so that it was centred on John’s chest again, and now his eyes were cold. John watched as his finger began to move and then shouted, “No, I haven’t! You were right, you were. I did all of this for him. I created a new career for myself just like he created his, solely because I couldn’t bear for what he’d accomplished to fall into dust.”

Moran scoffed. “You’re just saying that now to save your skin.”

“Not true,” said John. “I’m English, for God’s sake. It’s not like we talk about our feelings. But of _course_ my entire blog is about resurrecting Sherlock Holmes’ reputation. I might not mention him by name, but he’s the reason I have … anything. He jumped off a building to save my life, did you know that?” He met the other man’s eyes. “Seriously, did you know that? Because I didn’t, not until this morning.”

Slowly, Moran nodded, some of the chill leaving his eyes. “Not only did I know, you were in my gun-sights the entire time.”

John exhaled, hard, as if forcing out some heavy pressure from around his heart. “Then you know—I owe him this, Moran. I don’t want to die, but I can’t live with myself if I’m not willing to sacrifice as much for him as he did for me. Two years of blog posts just aren’t enough.”

He glanced back down at his arm. “So, we’re stuck. You’re loyal to Moriarty. I’m loyal to Sherlock, and neither of us is going to budge. Now what do we do?”

Moran’s arm had dropped to his side. “Damned if I know,” he said, looking weary, but oddly … content. “You really did all of this for Holmes? You’d really die for him, even now?”

John nodded, then instantly regretted it. Between the concussion and the blood loss, he was starting to feel light-headed, and the nausea wasn’t far behind. “Of course. He did it for me, after all.”

Moran’s expression just drained away, leaving him looking utterly defeated. In frustration, he turned to John’s laptop and emptied his entire clip of rounds into the machine before sliding down to sit on the floor. 

John was left wincing as his ringing ears set up their own complaints now, pounding alongside his head and shoulder as Moran said, “That’s the real difference between us, Doc. Holmes killed himself to save you, but Moriarty killed himself just to make him do it. He didn’t care a rat’s ass about me. When it came down to it, he didn’t give me a thought.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a flask, unscrewed the top, and took a swig. “You?” 

Unsure what the man’s mood was at the moment, John nodded, and Moran crawled across the floor to him, holding the silver to his mouth. To John’s surprise, the drink was brandy, smooth and clean on his palate, not harsh like he’d expected. He nodded his thanks and Moran settled back down, tucking the flask away before reaching into another pocket.

This time, he took out another bullet and carefully loaded his gun. “In the end, Doc, we’re really not all that different—we just picked different captains. It’s just that yours actually cared. In the end, that just makes you suffer more, doesn’t it? Knowing he’s gone? Knowing you lost more than I did?”

“Knowing he cared does definitely make it harder,” John said quietly, head starting to swim now as the stress and blood-loss began to take its toll. “But I wouldn’t say I’d suffered more than you. It makes it harder—but maybe it makes it a little easier, too.”

He was so focused on what Moran was doing with that one bullet, he barely heard the noise in the hallway downstairs. Please, don’t let that be Mrs Hudson, he prayed.

But Moran wasn’t paying attention. His hands were mechanically loading the gun, but his eyes didn’t leave John’s. 

Finally, he lifted the gun. “I suppose in the end, we’re all left alone. Goodbye, Dr Watson.”

And, before John could do more than shout in protest, Moran lifted his gun to his own head, and fired.

 

#

 

John stared down at the body in front of him, pulling at the ropes binding him to the chair, trying to get closer, even though he could see that there was nothing to do. Moran’s eyes were open and unblinking and the blood was pooling into the carpeting.

But still, John struggled. He was a doctor, damn it, and he’d had enough people die in front of him. He didn’t need any more. Not even a bastard like Sebastian Moran.

It was no use, though. Moran had tied him too well and his injuries were working against him as the room began to swirl around him to the sound of a crash echoing in his ringing ears. He started to turn his head toward the door, but the effort was too great. It had to be, since he was obviously hallucinating. 

Dizzy and almost worried now, he closed his eyes. He’d just rest for a minute, he thought, and then try working at the ropes again. If only the room would stop spinning. His arm was throbbing now, the blood dripping down his arm as his ears still complained about the multiple gunshots from before. He frowned, as he thought he heard words in the static. “…but Moran is dead. We need an ambulance…”

An ambulance would be helpful, thought John woozily, though it was really too late for Moran. They needed a good cleaning service more. It wasn’t fair to leave this mess for Mrs Hudson.

“John?”

He tried to open his eyes, fighting the dizziness. Auditory and visual hallucinations now? That was a bad sign, wasn’t it? He seemed to remember that it was, if only his headache would stop so he could think. He thought he felt a hand on his (good) shoulder, but then a muffled curse and footsteps … and by the time he’d pried his eyelids open again, there was nothing there, just Moran on the floor in a pool of blood and blue lights flashing in the window. No sign of…

But no, that wasn’t possible, was it?

His head fell forward again, and he was unsure how long it was—it didn’t feel long—before the door burst open again (again?) and this time he was sure he was hearing his name. 

“Sherlock?” he asked, trying not to feel too hopeful, knowing it was crazy.

Definitely crazy, because he heard Greg say, “Christ, John,” sounding shattered.

“Greg,” he managed, forcing his eyes open again, but unable to focus. Rest time was over, he told himself. The police were here and would need a statement. “Moran…”

“Sebastian Moran?” Greg sounded surprised as he turned to look at the body on the floor. “He did this?”

John just barely remembered not to nod. “Didn’t like the video,” he managed. “Wanted me to take it down. Said no. Took it out on the laptop and then shot himself. Not sure why.”

Someone had found an ice pack, because Greg was holding it to his head now. The relief was enormous. “Other than head, are you hurt?”

“Shot in the shoulder. Incentive. Ears ringing. Concussion. Otherwise fine,” John said, only managing to speak in short phrases, between waves of pain and rising nausea. “Other than the hallucinating.”

“Hallucinating?”

“Could have sworn I saw Sherlock just before you got here,” he said, fighting against the fatigue, trying to stay awake, but it was a losing battle now. “Know it’s crazy. My post is up, though, right? The video?”

“Going viral as we speak. I was going to yell at you for not giving me that head’s up, but…”

“I was a little tied up,” quipped John. 

Greg was working at the ropes now, and suddenly, John couldn’t hold himself up anymore. He tried to open his mouth to tell him, but suddenly he was at the end of a long tunnel … and then he was gone.

 

#

 

John woke in a hospital room, which he supposed wasn’t much of a surprise if he was going to wake up at all. His head felt like it was attached to his body again, which was good, even if he wished it didn’t hurt quite so much. Compared to earlier, though … he thought he might even be capable of coherent speech soon. It was dark outside the window, but that didn’t tell him much, though the hallway was quiet, like it was late. There was a clock on the wall, but it was too much of an effort to try to focus. Maybe he should get his vision checked soon, he thought, trying to remember the last time he’d had an eye exam. Not today, though. His head hurt enough already.

He leaned his head back on the pillow and tried to make sense of what had happened earlier (yesterday?). Had Moran really killed himself just because John wouldn’t take down a blog post? It didn’t make any sense, and yet he had seen it. Granted, he hadn’t been at his best, but still … 

Of course, he’d also thought he’d seen Sherlock. 

He closed his eyes, trying to remember exactly what he’d seen—or thought he’d seen. Moran had turned his head toward the window, as if expecting police, which was reasonable after all the gunshots that had taken out his poor laptop. (Thank heaven he backed it up, he thought.) Then, Moran had shot himself as John yelled, and the door had crashed open … except, he remembered Greg opening the door, didn’t he? How could it have opened twice? Unless that really had been Sherlock’s ghost rushing in just a little too late to try to save him. He almost chuckled. He supposed ghosts didn’t have a very good sense of timing.

All things considered, it probably wasn’t unusual that he’d thought of Sherlock in what could have been his last minutes. God knew he thought about him often enough anyway, and luckily, here he was, having somehow convinced Moran to turn his gun on himself, though how John had possibly done that, he still wasn’t sure. 

Eyes still closed, he heard the door open but was too tired to bother to look. 

“You’d think a man who’d just been shot in his home would be more alert to strangers entering his room,” came a hauntingly familiar baritone.

“I’ve a concussion,” John replied, “And choose not to overreact to a hallucination. Raising my blood pressure right now would be excruciating.”

There were steps as his hallucination crossed over to the bed with remarkably solid-sounding footsteps. “Not exactly how I pictured this would go, John.”

“A hallucination with an imagination,” said John with a tiny huff of a laugh. “I don’t know what that says about me.” He truly did not want to think about what it might mean that he felt Sherlock’s presence so very strongly. He wondered briefly what kind of painkillers they were giving him.

Hallucination or not, the hand that touched his next was very real. Warm, with strong fingers. “You scared me, John. Terrified, even. When I heard the shot, I thought I was too late.”

John’s eyes were clenched closed now, not wanting this to end, almost grateful for the concussion that was granting him this ethereal visit from his best friend. “It wasn’t my fault. Who knew Sebastian Moran was a literary critic?”

“And that your writing was so bad, he killed himself over it?”

“Not the writing,” John said, protesting. “The video. And don’t ask me to explain it. I’m concussed.”

“Yes, you are, and with a new bullet wound in your shoulder—though not as severe as the last one.” The fingers on his hand moved to wrap around his wrist, feeling oh, so real, and John’s fingers closed around the other’s arm reflexively. “Alive, though.”

“Alive,” said John, “Unlike you.” 

Unable to resist any longer, he forced open his eyes to look up at a very real, very concerned Sherlock Holmes. His hair was the wrong colour, and the casual clothing entirely unlike him, but it was Sherlock.

John’s hand clutched at the man’s wrist. It was solid, with a regular pulse thrumming through the veins. “Either you’re a frighteningly real hallucination, or you’re not dead.”

A halting smile pulled at Sherlock’s mouth. “Your deductive skills really have improved since I’ve been gone.”

“You’re alive.” John knew he sounded dense and was only showing Sherlock once again how stupid and unobservant he was, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t know if it was the concussion or the shock, but he couldn’t absorb the facts that were staring him in the face with such concern. 

“I am,” Sherlock said, gripping his arm. “I’m sorry, John.”

“I…” John closed his eyes, trying to use the familiar darkness behind his eyelids to find his focus before looking again. “Why are you sorry? You saved my life—though I only found out … yesterday? … about that, about why you jumped. I should be thanking you.” 

“You should be thank…? _John_. I left you alone for two years. I lied to you, and I almost got you killed—again. Moran wouldn’t have even been there if not for me. You have nothing to thank me for.”

John just blinked at him, frowning. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“You are.”

“And so are you?”

“Well, yes…”

“Isn’t that all that matters, then?” 

“But…” 

The blank look on Sherlock’s face was priceless, John thought. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him look so bewildered … but then, it had been two years since he’d seen him at all.

Part of him still wasn’t entirely convinced he was seeing him now.

“I thought you would be angry with me,” Sherlock said, his voice uncertain.

“Angry?” John’s brow creased, as if the word left an unfamiliar taste in his mouth. 

“For lying … for keeping this from you,” Sherlock said, as if he couldn’t quite believe why John wasn’t yelling at him. 

“I haven’t really had a chance to think about it,” John said, feeling the way the words formed in his mouth. “I suppose I could be angry. Angry for you lying to me, for making me watch as you jumped off a building. Angry for you keeping the fact that you’re _alive_ for almost two whole _years_ , and you know what? You’re right. I _am_ angry!”

And, he was. He was furious. Indignant, even, that his best friend had kept all this from him. Insulted, as if he couldn’t be trusted to keep the secret. Enraged that two years of grief and heartache had turned out to be unnecessary. So, stupidly, cruelly unnecessary. 

That smug, knowing smirk on Sherlock’s face wasn’t helping matters, either.

It was like a floodgate had been opened, as feelings of rage and anger and frustration poured through him. He had spent so much time, these last two years, keeping his emotions at bay, focusing on the Work, he was unprepared for the onslaught of two years’ worth of emotions crashing down on him all at once, a bruising torrent of feeling that flooded through his battered heart and aching head all at once.

In fact, his head _was_ aching. His rising blood pressure straining his injured brain until, even with whatever pain meds the hospital was using, he could barely stand the pounding in his head. He started to lift his hands to his head, but the pull at his left shoulder woke a new flare of agony and he groaned again, and then, even to his own surprise, started to laugh. “Typical,” he gasped out around the pain. “You’ve only been back a matter of hours and I’m in hospital. Obviously you were right. I _am_ safer with you dead. Ow. I take it back. I’m not angry at all. It hurts too much.”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice sounded hurt. Or was that worried? John leaned his head back against his pillow and endeavoured not to care … at least not until the pounding had stopped. 

There was a bustle and rustle of feet as Sherlock went to get a nurse, who came to tut over John’s bedside. He smiled to himself as she scolded Sherlock for upsetting him because, really, how could he not have? By definition, a best friend coming back from the dead after two years was going to be upsetting, wasn’t it? He only wished that he wasn’t lying in a hospital bed for it. 

Because, yes, he was angry. Part of him would almost have liked to punch Sherlock for putting him through this, but part of him really just wanted to hug him. There were appropriate times for hugs between friends, and he was reasonably certain that the coming-back-from-the-dead thing definitely came with a Hugging Allowed qualifier. If only to feel that he was real.

The nurse was asking questions, now and John answered them calmly, focusing on easing his breathing, trying to mentally force his blood pressure back down to non-pain-inducing levels. He wasn’t quite ready to open his eyes yet, though. The minute he did, she was going to shine bright light into them and he wasn’t prepared for that, and luckily she didn’t insist. 

Before long, it was quiet again and the pounding had stopped and John warily opened his eyes. 

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day early, but I wanted to put you out of your cliffhanger misery!
> 
> And, no, I have no idea if a fingerprint-reading keyboard even exists, but if it does, you can be sure Mycroft has one.


	6. Chapter 6

_—“Maybe there’s a way out of the cage where you live. Maybe one of these days you can let the light in….”_

#

 

When John finally opened his eyes again, Sherlock was sitting quietly in the bedside chair, watching John with concern. 

“Better?”

“Yeah, sorry,” John said. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Compared to last night, that was nothing.”

“Moran,” John said, realizing.

“Yes.” Sherlock leaned forward, face intent. “You have no idea … I’ve spent the last two years trying to track down Moriarty’s network, and Moran was the last piece to the puzzle. When I heard he was back in London … well, I hurried, only to find that through a particularly unpropitious bit of timing, his return coincided with your deciding it was time to take your blogging efforts to the next level. When I heard he’d been seen on Baker Street … God, John. When I heard the gunshots … I thought I was too late.”

John grimaced, sympathizing. “He killed my laptop out of frustration. I just hope that automatic back-up Mycroft set up worked. I’d hate to lose all that work.”

Sherlock snorted. “If Mycroft’s people set it up, they’re probably making copies of everything as you type. Should I ask why my brother gave you a laptop?”

“I think it was an apology,” John said, grateful for a slightly less volatile subject. “And when I started blogging again and started tackling truly massive amounts of information … er, have you seen my blog lately?” 

He was almost afraid to ask, knowing Sherlock’s former opinion of his blog, but he was proud of it, even more than he had been in its earlier incarnation. He wasn’t sure what he would do if Sherlock mocked it now, but to his relief, his friend was nodding. “I have and … I’m impressed, John. Truly.”

“Really?” John couldn’t help the eager hope in his voice, and cursed himself for sounding like a puppy anxious for praise.

“Really. I can see why it’s become so popular … and I can’t tell you how much I appreciated the video entries.”

John ducked his head. “One of my readers requested it, and there were some subjects that were just easier to show than to … what are you smiling at?”

“You couldn’t have known, but I’ve left you comments over the last two years,” Sherlock said, “And an occasional suggestion.”

“That was … you’re the one who asked for video?”

“Not the only one,” Sherlock said, “I noticed that several people took up the call after I suggested it, but yes, I was the first. I … truly hoped you would accept the challenge. It was … a comfort … hearing your voice.”

“I… I don’t know what to say to that, Sherlock,” John said, feeling suddenly numb. He would have liked to have heard Sherlock’s voice, too.

There was silence for several too-long moments, as if Sherlock realized he’d said something awkward—which would be a change, because Sherlock normally never did realize. Then, John asked, “So, that wasn’t a hallucination, last night? You were at the flat?”

Sherlock nodded. “Like I said, Mycroft’s people had seen Moran, and I was already on my way when there were reports of gunshots … I don’t think I’ve ever run so fast in my life, John. And then, just as I reached the bottom of the stairs, there was another … I truly thought I was too late.”

“But you weren’t,” John said, trying to be reassuring.

“Not because of anything I did,” Sherlock said with a tone of loathing. “When I opened the door and saw you… for a moment, I couldn’t breathe, John. I thought he had killed you and then shot himself … You have to tell me how you convinced him not to kill you.”

John shook his head. “I really don’t know. He was more concerned about the blog entry—the one with the video from, from the roof—than actually killing me. Something about wanting to protect Moriarty’s reputation, proving his loyalty. I don’t know how he knew about the video, though.”

“He was Moriarty’s right-hand man,” Sherlock told him. “He tried to keep the network going, but just didn’t have the skills to be in charge of something so large. I don’t think he even realized the network was failing as much because of his mismanagement as because of my efforts.”

John thought back. “I don’t think he did. He just sounded upset that it was all crumbling without Moriarty, but … things had gotten weird by that point of the conversation.”

“Weird?”

“He told me that we were alike, ex-military, both loyal … but you killed yourself to save me. Moriarty just killed himself to make you do it—he never gave a thought to Moran, and I think that that’s what he couldn’t bear, why he didn’t want that video up. When he couldn’t get me to give him my password, he just gave up.”

“You were more loyal than he was,” Sherlock said thoughtfully.

“No,” John said, feeling an unexpected need to defend the man who could so easily have killed him but refrained. “I just had a friend worth being loyal _to_ , and he realized it. He might never have been a good man, but he wasn’t evil like Moriarty was, either. He just put his faith in the wrong man.”

Sherlock’s voice was quiet as he asked, “And you, John? How do you feel, now that you know that I lied?”

John leaned his head back and sighed. “I haven’t absorbed it yet, Sherlock. I only found out yesterday why you jumped. Your being alive? There’s part of me that really still doesn’t believe that. The only thing I’m sure of is that I’d rather you were alive than dead. The rest of it can wait until I can think clearly.”

The room was quiet for a moment, then Sherlock said. “You seem to have been doing remarkably well on that front. Thinking clearly. I even attended one of your lectures, you know.”

John looked at him, surprised. “You did? Oh God … how bad was it?”

“No, John,” Sherlock said. “Quite the contrary. I was impressed. You’ve done me out of a job.”

Now John did smile. “Not possible. No one compares to Sherlock Holmes. I’m just a pale, slower imitation.”

“I disagree. Or, well, your deductions might be slower, but they’re sound, which is what matters, and you bring your medical knowledge with them. All in all, you’re a force to be reckoned with, John. I just hope you don’t set yourself up in business against me. Your reputation is stronger than mine at the moment.”

John laughed. “Well, we both know that won’t last. Though I _do_ have a better bedside manner than you—along with official authorization for visiting crime scenes. But don’t even think about stealing my ID, Sherlock, I’m telling you now.”

“Oh, please, John. I only ever stole Lestrade’s when he was being annoying.”

“Are you saying I can’t be annoying?”

“Definitely not. You’re quite good at it. But you’re also my friend, John, and believe it or not, I’d rather not ruin that.”

John smiled as a wave of exhaustion swept over him. It had been a rough 24 hours, and his body was clamouring for sleep. “You’ll be here when I wake up?”

The last thing he heard as sleep took him was Sherlock’s heartfelt, “I will, John.”

 

#

 

When John woke again, the sun was streaming in the window and his head had settled to a normal-sized headache—mostly a dull grumble at the back of his skull that he could ignore. His arm wasn’t too sore, as long as he didn’t jostle it, and all in all, he was feeling remarkably good.

And, unless he’d imagined the entire thing, Sherlock was alive.

John admitted he was angry about the deception, but the joy at Sherlock being not dead outweighed that. He planned on having a long talk with Sherlock about friendship and lies and grieving, but … not today. Today, the sun was shining, and his friend was back.

He wasn’t in the room, though, but John refused to let that faze him. Yes, he remembered Sherlock promising to be here, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to visit the loo or go for tea. Frankly, he was surprised Sherlock had been able to convince the nurses to let him stay in the room in the middle of the night at all. 

Yes, his brain was much clearer today. Some of what happened last night at the flat was a bit of a blur, but he definitely remembered his blog post. He wondered what kind of reaction it had had. He wondered how many comments he’d gotten, how full his email was. Was the reaction positive, he hoped?

He groaned as he remembered Moran’s bullets demolishing his laptop. How was he supposed to follow this up without a laptop? As grateful as he was that Moran hadn’t chosen to shoot _him_ in his frustration, had he really had to pick on the laptop? It’s not like it accomplished anything. He just prayed that Mycroft’s automatic, real-time back-up had worked the way it was supposed to. The only work he’d gotten done yesterday had been that one blog post, but he had a wealth of data on that computer that he could not afford to lose. Databases, lectures, videos, notes for blog posts…

His thoughts were interrupted by an orderly bringing his breakfast, and he was hungry enough to eat all of it, though the tea was beyond depressing. It was difficult, managing with his left hand in a sling, but he had dealt with worse handicaps in his time. Nothing was going to damper his mood today. He just wished he had a way of taking notes on all the things he needed to do. He hoped someone had kept poor Mrs Hudson from seeing the disaster that was their living room carpet.

He was starting to wonder (seriously wonder) where Sherlock had gone, though, when Greg stopped by. The look of relief on his face at seeing John awake and alert was almost comical. “Christ, you look so much better today, John. You scared me.”

“Sorry about that,” John told him. Was he supposed to mention Sherlock, he thought? His friend hadn’t said, and John was unprepared for doing this on his own. He knew Sherlock was alive, but there was an icy knot in his stomach that was growing tighter as more time passed without him. He didn’t _think_ he’d hallucinated that entire conversation, but … had he?

“Can you tell me what happened?”

And so John explained about Moran’s appearance and his determination not to let John post the video. “He told me he would kill me if I posted it, but I figured … Sherlock died for me. How could I not do the same for him? I fully expected to be dead this morning.”

Greg was just staring at him. “That’s … John … did you even _think_? How could you do that?”

“How could I not? Clearing Sherlock’s name is what I’ve been working toward for two years, Greg. I wasn’t going to let someone tell me I couldn’t. Especially with a gun. You know how stubborn I am.”

“That’s an understatement,” Greg said, muttering a bit. “So that explains your shoulder, then?”

John nodded. “He bashed me in the head after I hit Post, but I’d closed the lid of the laptop so he couldn’t get back in without the password. The shoulder was supposed to be incentive, but when I still refused … I’m honestly a little fuzzy on the next part. He talked about being loyal to Moriarty and not wanting the video up for his reputation. He said we were a lot alike, which I’m trying not to find insulting, but then … well, then he shot the crap out of my laptop, had a drink, and then killed himself.”

“Jesus, John,” Greg breathed. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“You and me both. I was kind of light-headed by then … you didn’t let Mrs Hudson up there, did you?”

Greg shook his head. “What do you take me for? Anyway, Mycroft had a cleaning squad at the house so fast, there wasn’t time. She wasn’t in the house while all this was happening.”

John let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I wondered. That was my biggest fear last night—that she would walk into the middle of it. The only thing I was really worried about was her getting hurt.”

“Other than you, the only casualty was Moran,” Greg told him. “And your laptop, but Mycroft’s people dropped off a new one this morning, so you should be able to pick up where you left off once you’re out of here. When’s that supposed to be, anyway?”

“Any time, I was told. I’m just waiting for the paperwork. They said I could leave as long as I’ve got someone to keep an eye on me, and I figured Mrs Hudson wouldn’t mind popping in, as long as there’s no gore in the rug for her to deal with.”

Greg stood up. “Right, I’ll go see if I can speed that along, shall I? And then I’ll tell you about Sally’s reaction to that blog post of yours…”

He hurried out the door and John was left smiling after him. Greg had been a good friend these last two years.

He couldn’t help but wonder, though, what had happened to his ghostly-visitor from the night before. Maybe he had imagined it after all?

 

#

 

An hour later, John pushed open the door to 221B, with Greg right behind him, chattering about the blood stains being cleared away, but that he’d need new carpeting. 

Greg was following so closely, in fact, that when John stopped short, he bumped into John’s sore shoulder. “Christ, I’m sorry,” he started, peering around John to see what had made him stop.

There in the middle of the living room, was Sherlock Holmes. 

Unlike the apparition of the night before, he was now dressed in one of his familiar, elegant suits. His hair was back to its usual colour, and it was like walking two years back in time. 

Forewarned as he was, John still had a moment of light-headed surprise as Greg started swearing behind him. He felt a hand under his elbow as if he were a fragile pensioner, he thought bitterly, trying not to be grateful for the support as he sat down in his chair. He watched, bemused, as Greg then went to stand in front of Sherlock, a quivering, furious statue of a man. “You’re not dead?”

Sherlock lifted one brow. “No, inspector, and neither are you.”

“Very funny, Sherlock,” said Greg, furious. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t punch you right now?”

“Because I’m not dead,” Sherlock repeated pointedly, “And neither are you, or John, or Mrs Hudson.”

“Maybe not,” Greg all but shouted as he pointed to John, “But do you know how close John came to being killed last night?”

Sherlock inclined his head. “Of course, I do. I was here before you were, Lestrade. As soon as I heard Sebastian Moran was here … but I was too late to do anything. John had already somehow talked the man into killing himself. He was hurt but since your lot were already arriving, I took myself upstairs—I am still officially dead, and it seemed best not to be seen if it wasn’t necessary.” He looked around Greg. “I wouldn’t have left if you had needed me.”

John nodded. “I know.”

Greg rounded on him. “Did you know about this?”

“Not until about 2:00 this morning when I found Sherlock in my hospital room—though I thought I had seen him last night, remember? Except we both thought I was hallucinating?”

The older man nodded. “Right. But you weren’t. Because Sherlock is alive.” He staggered suddenly. “Sherlock is alive.”

Like a flash, Sherlock was on his feet, hands grasping Lestrade’s as he helped him into a chair. “This is starting to be an all-too-common reaction,” he complained. “Is everybody going to faint when they see me?”

Both John and Greg protested, but then John asked, “Mrs Hudson?” 

Face rueful, Sherlock nodded. “Full-blown faint. When the time is right, we might need to use your blog to prepare people, John, or we’ll have swooning in the street.”

“And miss the chance to surprise Donovan and Anderson? Absolutely not,” said John with a grin. “Though … when _will_ the time be right? I assume this isn’t official yet?”

“There are still some things Mycroft needs to do, and there will be paperwork to be filed—he excels at that. I’m told that I must be patient.” Sherlock’s lips curled at the word. “Though, I confess, I wouldn’t mind a breather.”

For the first time, John really looked at his friend, taking in how whipcord thin he was, skin almost stretched to the limit over bones and too-little muscle. What had Sherlock said? That he’d spent the last two years chasing Moriarty’s network? He noted the haunted look in his eye, and wondered exactly what that crusade had cost him. Sherlock might be in one piece, but that didn’t mean he was in better shape than John was.

Nodding to himself, he said, “Your bedroom is still yours. It’s crowded with boxes of things I needed to … clear … but it’s otherwise untouched. Have you slept at all?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not really, but you know me, John…”

“I do,” John said firmly, “And if this is over for all except the paperwork, there’s no reason for you not to take at least the day to relax. I know I’m not up to much more than that myself, and … I’d be grateful for the company.”

No, John was not above some emotional manipulation to get his way, not at all.

 

#

 

After Greg was gone, John and Sherlock stayed in the flat, talking, resting, talking, drinking Mrs Hudson’s tea … and talking. A surprising amount of talking. 

Both Sherlock and John were exhausted, so neither of them pushed the topics into anything too emotionally fraught. Sherlock gave John an overview of the globe-trotting, crime-fighting crusade of the last two years. John told Sherlock about his blogging efforts—because even though (he still couldn't believe) Sherlock had been an avid reader and occasional commenter, he was still curious about John’s motivations. 

“I meant what I said, John. I’m impressed. Even more so now that I realize what a well-planned campaign it was—a credit to your military training.”

“I don’t know that I’d go that far, exactly. I was in the RAMC, remember. Most of our battles were fought against diseases, not people—and certainly not against ideas. This was all new for me.” John shifted in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position for his shoulder. “But, still … you’re right. It was a campaign, just not one I ever thought I’d be waging.”

“Nor did I expect to be the one using a gun and physical threats,” said Sherlock from his position on the couch. “It seems the last two years made us both do things we hadn’t expected to do.”

John looked at his friend, noting again the haunted look in his eye. “You’ve killed since you left,” he said. “Are you … okay with that?”

“Define okay,” Sherlock said casually—too casually. “None of them were very nice people.”

John’s lips lifted at the reminder of their first case, but then said, “No, but that doesn’t mean killing them was easy—or should have been.”

“It wasn’t, but it needed to be done.” Sherlock stared down at his hands for a moment. “Don’t worry, John. I have not fulfilled your worst fears and become a monster.”

John just watched him. “That was never my worst fear, Sherlock. I’ve always known that you weren’t a monster—that’s what makes this worse. You should never have had to kill anybody.”

“But it’s all right for you, a doctor, to do so?” Sherlock’s voice was harsh.

“Not all right, no, but I was trained, Sherlock—both in medicine and in the army, I was taught to do whatever was necessary to protect my patient, my people. I’ve seen too many people die in too many different ways to ever take that lightly. I understand the importance, but I also understand that life is short.”

“And I don’t?”

“Of course you do. You’re the world’s only consulting detective, aren’t you? But there’s still a difference between seeing it and knowing it, and making it happen—even when it has to happen. If it was easy … that’s when it becomes a problem.”

Sherlock sat thinking, then said, “It got easier.”

The crux of the problem, thought John. “So long as you keep in mind _why_ you’re doing it, so long as you have a good reason that makes the action justified … people get killed in wars, Sherlock. Even the secret ones. You were performing surgery to excise an evil from the world—and there’s a difference between a doctor holding a scalpel and a serial killer butchering his victims.”

He saw Sherlock flinch as if the words had physical heft. “And what’s that?”

“The doctor is cutting for good of the patient, to save lives. The killer is just cutting for the sick pleasure of it.” He leaned his head back, considering. “The first time I held a scalpel on a living patient … I was terrified. The difference between that and practicing on cadavers … there’s no comparison. It didn’t matter that it was a routine procedure—the idea of cutting into a living, breathing person, even to heal … it’s not meant to be easy. But it got easier. I learned and improved my skills … and I watched my patients get better.”

“So, you’re saying the men I killed…”

“Same as carving out cancer,” John said. “Highly evolved, walking, talking cancers, but all the more dangerous for it. The world is a better place without them.”

There was a hint of colour to Sherlock’s cheeks now. “You believe that?”

John nodded. “Absolutely no question. If you considered it necessary, it was necessary. I mean, don’t make a habit of it or we’ll have Donovan up here gloating again, but … you did what you had to. You did the _impossible_. If it had been easy, anyone could have done it.”

Sherlock was watching him with something alight in his eyes. “I could say the same of you and your blog.”

“Me? I just compiled your notes into a series of blog posts.”

“You did more than that, John. First, you actually _learned_ what was in the notes. Second, you expanded your own knowledge to make the techniques more useful. Third, you shared all of this with others in ways that allowed them to understand it—something which I was never able to do. And, finally, along the way, you managed to clear my name. You defeated Moriarty just as much as I did.”

“Now you’re exaggerating,” John said. “Moriarty was never interested in me. I didn’t do anything to him except post the video of his death.”

Sherlock was shaking his head as if John were being particularly dense. The familiarity of it almost took his breath away. “You didn’t need to mention his name any more than you needed to use mine—your weapon was your research and your methodology was the way you deployed it. You proved I was real and he was lying using the very intelligence he consistently underrated.”

“You’re making me blush,” John said, deflecting the compliment. It was true that he had been instrumental in salvaging Sherlock’s reputation, but to say he had defeated Moriarty? Exaggerated hyperbole.

Sherlock considered him. “I underestimated you, too. I’m sorry for that.”

John just waved a hand. “It’s not like it was the first time. The thing you should be sorry for is not taking me with you.”

“Believe me, I wish I could have,” Sherlock said, “But then who would have resurrected my reputation?”

“I’m sure Mycroft would have been happy to—he’s certainly capable.”

“Capable, yes,” Sherlock said, “But not nearly as good at interpreting for regular people.”

John smiled. “My one real talent—interpreting Holmes-to-Human,” he said, joking.

Sherlock laughed. “It’s about time somebody did.”

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Note: Yes, one chapter and an epilogue to go. This was just getting too long to sum up in one!)


	7. Chapter 7

_—“I just wanna see you, I just wanna see you, I just wanna see you, I wanna see you be brave….”_

#

 

Sometime during that long, peaceful afternoon, John realized that he was content. 

After eyeing the newer, fancier laptop Mycroft provided—and resigning himself that protesting wouldn’t do any good—he spent some time pouring over his blog, reading the comments. They were overwhelmingly positive, running the gamut of shocked to vindicated as people saw exactly why Sherlock had jumped off the Barts roof those two years ago. 

At some point, the press had started arriving outside. 

Considering the events of last night _and_ the video on the blog, this wasn’t exactly a surprise, but it was unwelcome just the same. To the rest of the world, Sherlock was dead, and having an eager press corps (with cameras) just outside was a threat. 

John had pulled the curtains closed, blocking out the cheerful sunshine, but this was going to be a problem. Just picking up his papers from the doorstep had had them clamouring for comments—how was Sherlock supposed to keep his existence a secret like this? And it certainly wasn’t fair to Mrs Hudson, who had been up and down the stairs too many times today, scolding and spoiling them both by turns, but who deserved to be able to use her own front door without being harried.

It was almost a relief when Mycroft came vising that evening. 

Of course, they had heard him coming. Sherlock was sitting at the desk, going over some of John’s binders of collated notes, while John lay on the couch. He’d been napping until Sherlock said, “John,” in that particular tone of voice that could only mean his brother was coming. 

Some things never changed, John thought, as he struggled to sit up, wincing at the pull in his shoulder. He swiped at his hair with his good hand and told himself he really didn’t care what he looked like, it was just Mycroft. He’d seen him looking worse, after all.

He saw Sherlock watching him with concern, obviously analysing his pain and fatigue levels from the state of his left shoe, he thought with a mental grin at the old joke, then realized that it simply wasn’t that funny anymore. He knew too much now about how Sherlock made his deductions. (His shoe wouldn’t show anything, but the way he was holding his shoulders and the angle of his head would. Presumably his skin colour was informative as well, though he couldn’t see that himself.)

But then, he didn’t have to deduce how he was feeling. Unfortunately, that was all too painfully obvious. He glanced at his watch, still another 45 minutes before his next dose of painkillers. In the meantime he would just have to make do with tea—and maybe Mycroft would make a useful distraction.

Not surprisingly, Mycroft strolled in without even a knock, pausing in the doorway to survey the room, noting the used teacups and scattered papers. “How are you feeling, John? I hope the events of yesterday weren’t too much for you?”

John heard a snort from the kitchen, where Sherlock had disappeared as Mycroft came up the stairs, but he ignored his friend with the ease of long (absent) practice. “It was a full day, but all things considered, I can’t complain.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted, carving lines into his brow. “Indeed? That’s not what people with bullet wounds usually say.”

“Oh? I could be wrong, but I think I have more experience with people with bullet wounds than you do, what with the army doctor thing?”

Mycroft inclined his head. “Fair point, John. But still, it’s good to hear you’re mostly well—especially considering the circumstances.”

“You mean how John was almost killed on your watch, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, stalking back into the room and handing John an ice pack for his head. “I thought our deal meant you would prevent this sort of thing? How did Moran even know about the video, anyway?”

Mycroft had the grace to look abashed as John thankfully pressed the cool handful of goodness against his aching head. “It appears that, after John’s post yesterday morning talking about suicides, Moran proactively sent one of his people in to plant a camera to keep an eye on him, and thus saw him showing the video to Detective Inspector Lestrade. And before you say it, Sherlock, we disrupted the signal as soon as we became aware of it, but … the damage was done, as they say. He was already here.”

“There was a camera…?” How had John missed that?

“Which means you were just _watching_?” Sherlock asked, voice practically vibrating in its intensity. “And yet it still took your men half an hour to get here?” 

“We discovered the feed just after Moran arrived, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I naturally dispatched a team to help, but the damage was done.”

“And yet I somehow managed to arrive before them, so what good are you? You were supposed to protect him.”

John was watching the two brothers, bewildered. It didn’t surprise him that Mycroft had known Sherlock was alive. (Of course he had known.) He supposed he wasn’t even surprised to hear that Sherlock had asked his brother to keep an eye on him—if Sherlock was willing to jump off a building for him, asking his brother for a favour would be almost easy, wouldn’t it? 

But still, as he watched the two of them fighting over him, all he could think was how grateful he was. Not for being kept in the dark. Not for having been forced to grieve for a friend who was alive. No, those things he was still upset about, but … against all the absolutely _impossible_ odds, he had Sherlock and Mycroft sniping at each other in his living room again. 

He had the incredible good fortune of getting exactly what he asked for—another miracle. The only thing missing was Mrs Hudson puttering in the kitchen.

…Which, of course, was the moment she walked in, asking if her boys wanted any tea, and oh, hello, Mycroft, and John couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing, and then only laughed harder when all three of them turned to stare, though only the two Holmes brothers looked insulted.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry. It’s just … who would have thought I’d miss you two, squabbling? And Mrs Hudson, your offer was just perfectly timed, as always. And oh, ow.” The laughter wasn’t doing his concussion any good, but oh, it was good for his heart.

He pretended not to see the three of them exchanging Oh-Dear-John’s-Gone-Mad looks, and struggled to his feet. It was close enough to his next dose for another pain pill, damn it.

 

#

 

Ten minutes later he returned to find Mrs Hudson gone (leaving a pot of fresh tea and a plate of scones in her wake), and both Mycroft and Sherlock practically whispering in the corner.

Well, that couldn’t be good.

“What?” he asked.

“We’re just concerned about you, John,” Mycroft said.

John took one of the scones and slathered on some butter and strawberry jam before taking a bite (perfection, as always) before answering. “I’m fine,” he told them, swallowing. “Or I will be soon enough. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Not the injuries, John,” Sherlock said.

“No, we’re more concerned with your … frame of mind.”

John just stared. “My frame of mind,” he repeated blankly.

“You seem oddly cheerful for a man with a concussion and gunshot wound,” Mycroft told him.

“Oddly…? My best friend just came back from the grave,” he said, wondering if the concussion was making him particularly dense. “Why wouldn’t I be happy about that?”

“Well, we rather expected…”

“I thought you’d be angry,” Sherlock told him.

“I could have sworn we discussed this last night. I am angry, but I’m also just glad to have you back.” John stared at them as the concern level stayed the same. “Why does everyone expect me to be angry?”

“Why wouldn’t you be?” And no, Mycroft’s piercing look of concern hadn’t grown any less creepy than when he’d first told him he missed the war. “We deceived you and left you alone, grieving.”

“We didn’t trust you enough to tell you the truth and let you help,” Sherlock added in a way that was supposed to be helpful, but wasn’t actually helping matter at all.

“You’re not helping,” John told him (since Sherlock apparently really did need to have these things explained). “Either of you. This is a complex situation, and believe me, I’m feeling a whole lot of different emotions, exasperation and confusion being near the top at the moment. Just because you Holmes brothers have the emotional range of a kumquat doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t do better.”

Now they both looked marginally insulted, but he held up his hand to forestall them. “In addition, I am not at my best, what with the gunshot, the concussion, and the crowd of reporters outside. Do you really _want_ me to be angry? Because given a choice, I’d much rather just continue to enjoy the fact that Sherlock isn’t actually dead before I need to start dealing with all the mess on the other side of my door. So … just, leave it, please?”

They both blinked at him, looking startlingly alike for two men who normally didn’t much resemble each other. Then Mycroft said, “You misunderstand, John. It’s not that we want you to be angry—I’m sure Sherlock’s jaw appreciates that you haven’t felt driven to punch him for his deception.”

“And Mycroft’s nose,” put in Sherlock, “Because it’s such a tempting target.”

His brother looked down said appendage at him and then turned back to John. “What we mean to say is that, while we acknowledge that there are range of possible emotions you might be experiencing, we are concerned because you don’t seem to be _feeling_ any of them. You’re much too calm.”

John’s jaw was hanging open. How was he even supposed to respond to that? “You, of all people, are complaining because I’m not emotional _enough_?”

Sherlock was nodding and the conversation just got more surreal, thought John … because any time Mycroft and Sherlock were in agreement for more than 3 seconds, something in the universe was out of alignment. “That doesn’t make sense. Are you just trying to make me angry so that you can say, ‘we knew you’d be angry’? Because if so, it’s working.”

“No, John. It’s honest concern,” Sherlock told him. “You’ve spent so much of the last two years controlling your emotions, not letting yourself … It just seems that you’re handling this too well, as if you’re not fully processing that I’m back.”

It was the bloody Twilight Zone, thought John, whose anger setting was working very well, thank you, and cranking up quickly. 

He pulled himself to his feet. “I’m well aware you’re back, Sherlock. Nobody else has quite the same effect on my blood pressure. I promise that my emotional and mental health is just what you’d expect for a man who not only learned that his best friend jumped off a building to save his life, that that same friend was not actually dead, and who _almost died twice_ all in the same day, and is now dealing with the after effects of a concussion and _being shot_. I am not in shock, nor am I in denial. What I am, is tired. So, if you’ll excuse me.”

And, tucking another scone into his sling and picking up his waiting cup of tea, he turned and made his way upstairs.

 

#

 

Upstairs, John sat on the edge of his bed and bit savagely into his scone. (Sadly, it was unbuttered, but getting out of the room had been more important than stopping for baked good enhancements.) 

He would admit that he had spent most of the last two years concentrating on all the impersonal, logical, factual things as he could. He had buried himself in writing blog posts that analysed to show Sherlock’s deductive genius. He had kept his emotions out of it because they would have worked against him. (Just look at how that one post yesterday morning—was it only yesterday?—had backfired against him, drawing Mycroft, Sherlock, and Sebastian Moran to him like moths to a flame.) 

That didn’t mean he hadn’t been feeling things all along, though. 

And, no, he hadn’t properly had time to absorb the almost incomprehensible fact that Sherlock was alive. 

Of course, that was what this quiet day in the flat had been meant to accomplish—a chance to relax (and heal) while mentally realigning to the fact that Sherlock was not mouldering under that glossy black marble gravestone after all. 

Even if he were in denial (which he would deny), it was far too early to be staging an intervention, or whatever that Holmes-blindside attack had been. It hadn’t even been a full day, yet, and he wasn’t even over the effects of the concussion. It wasn’t like he had spent the day hallucinating, though, or talking to thin air. If he had been, he was sure Mycroft would have mentioned it just now, but no. Greg had seen Sherlock, and so had Mrs Hudson, so he could put that worry aside.

Sherlock was alive and John just wanted to revel in the fact.

He didn’t want to be angry or hurt or furious or disappointed. He didn’t want to waste this precious, miraculous day being anything other than grateful. He wanted to simply breathe the same air as his best friend, to talk to him about cases, to just simply _be_. To be his friend, to be the John Watson he had so sorely missed these last two years.

Because, yes, he had redefined himself. He had forged yet a new edition of Ex-Captain, Dr John Hamish Watson, now Consulting Detective. (He wondered if Sherlock knew he was using his title, that he wasn’t the only one in the world anymore?) He was an accomplished blogger, a sought-after lecturer—God help him—and had a name and a reputation of his own in the detective world.

He was proud of that. He had fought for every inch of that ground, every speck of that reputation. He had restored his friend’s name and continued the Work with the sweat of his own brow and, while he didn’t think about it often, he was damn proud of that accomplishment.

But right now? Today? Today he just wanted to settle into that old, comfortable skin of John Watson, Sherlock’s assistant. Sherlock’s flatmate. Sherlock’s friend.

Of course, he thought with a sharp mental laugh, he supposed that was going exactly as planned, since he was sitting in his bedroom because he was too frustrated with the two Holmeses in his living room. He might not have needed to do that in the last two years, but it _was_ familiar.

Swallowing the last of his tea, he stretched out on his bed, listening to the rumble of Sherlock’s baritone through the floor. Moments later, he heard the street door and then … for the first time in two years … the strains of a violin drifted up the stairs.

Smiling to himself, he fell asleep.

 

#

 

Headache reduced to a shadow of its former self, John went down the stairs, wondering whose voice he was hearing in the living room. Surely Sherlock didn’t have a guest?

— _“You really did all of this for Holmes? You’d really die for him, even now?”_ _“Of course. He did it for me, after all.”_

Oh. Oh God. It was Moran—his conversation with Moran. Mycroft had mentioned a video feed, but hadn’t bothered to say that the entire confrontation had been recorded.

He edged around the door to see Sherlock staring at his laptop screen. (He knew the password wouldn’t hold Sherlock for long.) His friend’s face was almost green in the glow from the screen, and John had only seen that heart-struck, devastated expression once before—in those first seconds after he had stepped out into the pool wearing a bomb.

“Sherlock?”

John saw how his hand shook as he reached out to pause the video. “John? I … _John_.”

“Mycroft didn’t say he had recorded it.”

Sherlock was visibly collecting himself. “Of course he did, he’s Mycroft. That’s not the point … how could you do that?”

“I had to do it, Sherlock. I had to post that video.”

“No, you didn’t. Mycroft had it—he could have released it. He had just been waiting for the right time, and thought you would like the honour—but, John, it was not worth your life.”

John shrugged, wincing a bit at the pull in his shoulder. “I disagree. I spent two years trying to clear your name, Sherlock. I wasn’t going to quit at the finish line.”

“Quitting and being _shot_ are not the same thing!” 

“No, they’re not,” John agreed. “But I figured he was going to kill me either way, and I didn’t want to let you down.”

“Let me down?” John couldn’t remember ever seeing Sherlock look quite so distraught. He thumped his fist on the table, just like he had That Night when he’d demanded, “Can’t you see what’s going on?” Just like Moran had in his frustration the night before. “If you had died … that was the whole _point_!”

“For you, maybe.”

“For both of us!” Sherlock exploded up out of his chair to fling himself about the room, arms flailing as he tried to encompass the magnitude of what he was feeling. “I jumped off a roof to keep you alive, and you were just going to throw that away?”

“No,” said John, feeling his own anger starting to stir in his gut. “But I was prepared to do the same thing you did for me—to die to save my best friend.”

Sherlock shook his head sharply. “Completely different things. So far as you knew, I was already dead. You were killing myself for something that didn’t matter.”

“You keep saying that, Sherlock. You keep saying your reputation doesn’t matter, but it does.”

“It doesn’t,” Sherlock told him fiercely. “I learned that very young—it doesn’t matter what other people think of me. It doesn’t matter that they don’t understand or don’t like me. All that matters is that I know what I’m doing is right. It’s the only measuring stick that matters.”

“So my opinion doesn’t matter then?”

Sherlock heaved a breath—it would have been a sigh if there hadn’t been so much furious rage behind it. “You are the sole exception, John.”

“So, you care about what I think about you, but don’t want me to tell anyone else?” 

“Not at the risk of your own life.”

“That’s rich, coming from you, Sherlock. You killed yourself to save me, but you won’t let me do the same for you?”

“So far as you knew, I was already dead!”

“Exactly!” John shouted back, goaded finally into yelling. “So far as I knew, my best friend had killed himself to save me. I’ve spent the last two years doing everything I could to salvage his reputation— _your_ reputation—because I could do nothing less. I had already lost my best friend, I couldn’t bear to lose what we had built together, too.”

“But you almost got yourself killed, John, for _nothing_.”

“But I didn’t know that, did I? Because you didn’t bother to _tell me_ ” 

Oh, they were worried John wasn’t angry enough? That was so going to change, he thought, breathing hard through his nose while Looney Tunes images of bulls puffing steam flickered in the back of his brain.

“I couldn’t tell you, John,” Sherlock said carefully, enunciating every word crisply.

“Yeah, well, secrets are a double-edged sword, Sherlock,” John told him. “You can keep someone in the dark to keep them safe, and it can work for a while … right up until they walk off the cliff they couldn’t see because they didn’t even have a metaphorical torch to see the warning signs. If I had known you were alive, I would maybe have worked a little harder to stay that way myself so we could have this happy reunion, but I didn’t, did I? I thought you were gone, and I had reached the end of _my_ crusade of the last two years and if that meant I had to die?” 

He shrugged, ignoring the complaint from his bandaged shoulder, even as Sherlock lunged at him and grabbed him. “You almost ruined everything I’d worked for for two years! He was going to _kill you_.”

Somehow John managed not to flinch as Sherlock’s fingers dug into his shoulder, but he could feel his face pale, even as Sherlock’s fingers reminded him of the bandage beneath John’s shirt, so that he snatched his hands away as if he’d been burnt, breathing hard. “He was going to kill you, John.” His voice was much quieter this time.

John nodded. “I know. I didn’t really care. I wouldn’t want you to think I value our friendship any less than you did. Do.”

“Do,” Sherlock affirmed, nodding his head.

“Besides, if I hadn’t, he _would_ have killed me,” John said. “The only thing that saved me in the end was that my loyalty was equal to his—and that yours was greater than Moriarty’s.”

Sherlock nodded again, face still and almost vacant. “I really couldn’t have borne it, if you had died, John. Not after the last two years. Watching that—watching you prepared to die for no reason … even knowing how it ended, I couldn’t bear it.”

“It wasn’t for no reason,” John said quietly. “It was for my best friend. You somehow keep missing that part.”

There was a tiny part of him that was glad, though, that Sherlock had seen this, that he was reacting this way, because he didn’t think that Sherlock could have understood the emotions, otherwise. There was really no way to convey the feelings when you watched your best friend literally die for you (whether the death “stuck” or not).

“I am sorry I left you in the dark, John,” Sherlock said after a minute. “I never wanted to abandon you like that.”

John gave another, weary nod, resolutely not looking at his screaming shoulder, not wanting to make Sherlock feel guilty about aggravating the injury. “I know that. Seeing is believing, after all—which is why I was so determined to get that video up. Nothing less was going to convince your nay-sayers that you truly jumped to save others.”

He sank into his chair. “The thing is, Sherlock, you might not care what other people think … And don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying you or anybody should cave to public opinion, especially when it’s wrong … But maybe I’m just old-fashioned. I’ve always considered that a man’s reputation, his honour, is all he can count on in the end.”

“Honour, maybe,” Sherlock said, “But reputation is not the same thing. That’s the same error Moriarty made. He assumed I would care about my reputation, when it’s my own internal sense of right that matters.”

“I’m a simple man, Sherlock. Your own sense of honour may come first, but it’s backed up by your reputation—and, even if you weren’t here, I wanted to give that back to you.”

“Luckily for me, you’re not as old-fashioned as you think,” Sherlock said as he stepped into the kitchen, reappearing a moment later with the first aid kit in his hand.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you were, you’d be keeping a paper journal instead of a blog, and then nobody would see it,” Sherlock told him with a smile as he pulled out the bandages. “And then where would my reputation be?”

“I suppose I’d have to write stories, then,” John said, musing. “Because nobody would ever believe they were real.”

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Still working on the epilogue, but it's coming!)


	8. Epilogue

_¬¬ —“You can be amazing, You can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug. You can be the outcast, Or be the backlash of somebody’s lack of love.”_

#

 

John was helping at a crime scene when it happened.

It had been a week since Moran had killed himself in John’s living room and in some ways, John was almost wishing he’d taken him with him … because while he was beyond thrilled to have Sherlock back, it meant he was trapped in a flat with a _bored_ Sherlock Holmes.

Clearly, something had to be done.

The first step was to try to clear away some of the gawkers outside, so John had put a “thank you for your support” blog post up, along with a reassurance that, despite police presence at 221B that night, he was fine, but that he had no further comment at this time. 

He made a point of going out for groceries shortly afterward so the waiting Press could see he was alive and healthy. (He deliberately left his sling at home and bought light groceries so he could walk past them without visible strain to his shoulder.)

But, still, it wasn’t like Sherlock could easily leave the flat.

John had been surprised at how content Sherlock had been to lie about the flat the first few days, but he presumed the man was exhausted and grateful to be home. (“It’s hardly the first time in the last two years I’ve been forced to lie low despite the boredom, John. At least the atmosphere here is congenial,” he had said when John asked.) But now? Cabin fever was setting in, and Sherlock was obviously starting to feel antsy. Which meant John either needed to get out of the flat or kill his friend—he had a nice, handy grave waiting if they needed it, after all.

Sherlock obviously felt the same way because, today, John had woken to a text message from Sherlock saying that he was running errands. Once John was done laughing (because when did Sherlock ever do his own errands?), it was a relief because it meant he was _out_. There really was such a thing as too much togetherness.

He had a leisurely breakfast—one that didn’t involve trying to convince Sherlock to eat—and glanced at the papers, still touting Sherlock’s innocence and moving on to investigating Moriarty now. 

Then his phone rang. It was Greg, calling about a woman found bludgeoned to death in her home, and could he come?

Saying he was on his way, he quickly swallowed the last piece of toast and then sent a quick text.

— _Greg called. Got a murder, heading to crime scene, so don’t worry if I’m not here when you get back._

— _If Mycroft gets a move on, it’s possible I could join you. SH_

John couldn’t help an evil grin crossing his face. 

— _Just give me a heads up? I want a prime position for watching D and A’s faces when you show up._

— _Consider it done. SH_

Feeling cheered and reassured, John left for the crime scene and was met outside by Greg.

“Any new … developments?” Greg asked as John reached for a pair of gloves.

“Waiting on paperwork—crossing ‘T’s, dotting ‘I’s. That and dealing with a certain level of boredom. I’m glad to be out of the house,” John said

“I thought you thrived on paperwork these days, Doctor?” Donovan said from her place near the doorway. This was the first time he’d seen her since the video had been released, but she was as brash as ever.

“Why? Because I choose to check my facts? In that case, yes, I do.” He glanced up at her as she shifted her weight. “Is there something you wanted to say?”

After a moment, she ventured, “I do read your blog, you know.”

He turned to look at her, but didn’t say anything. If there was something she wanted to say—an apology, an explanation, more complaints—he wasn’t going to help.

“I just … I wanted to say that I watched that video—the one you almost got killed for posting. And I was at Baker Street when you were attacked. You … You’re a better friend than he deserved.”

His eyebrows lifted. “You think so?”

“To let yourself get shot for him, two years after he died? Yeah.”

John licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “You said you watched the video? So you saw that he jumped off a building to save not only my life, but that of your boss and our landlady, too? Then exactly what kind of friend do you think he deserved? Because in my book, that’s the kind of friend you do anything for.”

He watched an array of emotions cross her face as she gave a reluctant nod before turning away and leaving the room. He sighed and turned back to Greg. “That went better than I expected, I suppose. She was almost civil.”

“That video made quite an impression. It spread through the bullpen within minutes of your posting it.” Greg gave a laugh, thinking about it. “In fact, if we were late getting to Baker Street to help you that night, you only have yourself to blame. Nobody could tear themselves away, even the people who hated Sherlock.”

“Or especially them,” John muttered.

“Well, yeah—and don’t think that wasn’t satisfying, watching them … which reminds me. I wasn’t able to make my own video, but I did manage a couple snaps.” He pulled out his phone and pulled up a photo of Donovan and Anderson standing gobsmacked in front of a computer monitor, then another of Donovan with one shaky-looking hand over her mouth, and a third of the two of them looking actually devastated. “I don’t know if they’re more upset about him jumping or about having been wrong, but…”

“Satisfying just the same,” John said as he leaned forward to examine the body. “You’ll send me copies, I hope?”

“Oh, yeah.”

It was silent for a few minutes as John walked around the room, noting the full bookcases and closed windows. Then, just as John was saying, “I don’t think this was a murder,” his phone chimed. He pulled it out of his pocket and peered at the text, quickly erasing any expression on his face as he showed it to Greg.

— _Heads up. SH_

Greg gave a short nod, lips barely quirking at the edge as he called, “Anderson, come tell me about the body.”

Anderson sidled in, squirming a bit when he saw John. “Oh, Watson. How … how are you?”

John nodded politely. “Well enough, thanks for asking. Yourself?”

“I’m … I’m good. I, er, saw the, uh …”

“The video?”

“Yeah, that’s it. I just … I didn’t know why he, you know, jumped, and … no matter what else, I have to give him credit for that. He was a better man than I thought he was.”

It wasn’t the most gracious apology (non-apology?) John had ever received, but from Anderson, it was practically a sonnet of abjection and remorse, so John gave him a nod. “He always was.”

“What can you tell me about the body, Anderson?” Greg asked.

The man preened. “Oh, you want a _professional’s_ opinion now?”

“I’m sure he does,” came Sherlock’s voice from the doorway. “But until now he’s had to settle for yours.”

Anderson’s head shot around as he turned to stare at the door as nobody else moved.

Greg cleared his throat as both he and John watched Anderson as he stared at Sherlock. “Well, Anderson? I don’t have all day.”

“I … What?”

“The body,” Sherlock coached. “You were about to give them your professional opinion about how the woman died.”

Anderson looked back at John and Greg, eyes wide. “You don’t see him?”

“Our victim is a _woman_ ,” John told him pointedly, trying not to laugh. “I confess to being concerned if you don’t know the difference.”

“I know the difference,” Anderson snapped. “But … you really don’t see him?”

John and Greg both turned toward the doorway, eyes skimming right past a smirking Sherlock, who said, “You really should try talking about the crime scene, Anderson, if you don’t want to look like more of an idiot than usual.”

“Right,” Anderson said, looking rattled as he turned back to the body. “She was obviously killed by a blow to the head, likely by an attacker taller than she was.”

“Oh dear,” said Sherlock as he walked into the room. “You’d think you would have learned something while I was gone. Did you even bother to read John’s blog? He’s done some excellent posts on deductive reasoning you could study.”

“Of course I read his blog!” Anderson snapped, spinning to glare at Sherlock.

“Whose blog?” John asked. “The killer has a blog?”

“No, yours, just like he said!”

“Are you accusing me of being the killer, Anderson?” John asked.

“What? No!”

John pursed his lips to keep them from curving into a smile because, really, this was the funniest thing he’d seen in years. “You just said that her attacker was taller than she was, that you read his blog, and then said _my_ blog.”

“I … no…”

Off to the side, Sherlock tsk’d. “There’s a reason why speaking clearly is useful, Anderson. Do try to use your words like an adult.”

Anderson nodded at him, a little frantic. “No, Dr Watson, what I meant to say was that I read _your_ blog, which is always informative these days, of course, and that I believe this _woman’s_ attacker was taller than her because of the position of the blow to her head, so he was probably a man.”

“Except it wasn’t,” Sherlock said.

Anderson’s head whipped around and it was all John could do to keep his face neutral. “It was a woman?”

Greg crossed his arms. “Do you need a minute to collect your thoughts, Anderson?”

“What? No. But he said it wasn’t.”

“I did?” John asked.

“No, not you,” Anderson said as he pointed at Sherlock. “Him!”

Again, John let his eyes slide past his friend who was clearly enjoying himself. “Inspector Lestrade?”

“You really don’t see him?” Anderson’s voice was smaller now, but more frantic. 

Sherlock leaned forward, hands folded at his back. “Maybe you should go back to actually trying to do your job and talk about the woman lying dead on the floor. And people tell me I’m heartless.” He rolled his eyes.

John gave Sherlock a wink as Anderson bent toward the dead woman again. 

“You could really impress them by telling them that this wasn’t a murder,” Sherlock stage-whispered to Anderson.

“Really?” Anderson’s voice squeaked on the word, but he hastily grabbed for control as he turned to Greg and said, “I mean, this wasn’t a murder.”

Greg was starting to have a hard time controlling his face now, too, and just nodded. “That’s what John was saying just before you came in, Anderson. What makes you think so?”

Anderson swallowed, giving John a guilty glance before he looked back at Sherlock, a desperate look on his face. Sherlock, meanwhile, looked gratifyingly surprised, thought John. Apparently he hadn’t expected John to extrapolate any of his own blog posts to real, current crime scenes. “Yes, Anderson, tell us what makes you think so.”

“Er … There’s no sign of a break-in?”

“Are you asking us or telling us?”

“Telling?” said Anderson, looking back at Sherlock. 

Sherlock just rolled his eyes again. “Of course there was no break in. She was the only person home when she died.”

“So it was suicide?” Anderson said, as John and Greg resolutely kept their eyes on him.

“Suicide?” asked Greg. “That’s not something I would have suspected.”

“It wasn’t suicide,” John and Sherlock said at the same time as Greg and Sherlock both turned to look at him, while Anderson glared at Sherlock. “It was an accident, all because she liked to read too much.”

Anderson sneered at him. “Oh, you’re just making this up.”

John shook his head. “It was an accident. Or, well, I suppose you could point a finger at someone, but he didn’t exactly mean for it to happen.”

“It was a she,” corrected Sherlock, “Though otherwise John is quite correct. Why don’t you tell him, Anderson?”

Anderson just looked stunned. “It was a she? But … I don’t understand.”

“Some things never change,” said Sherlock, and John had to turn away to hide his smile, though he turned right back when Greg gave him a gentle kick, just in time to see Sally Donovan walk back into the room.

“Sir, the neighbours say that they didn’t hear any… Oh my God!” She stopped in the doorway, giving a classic double-take as she took in Sherlock’s signature coat and scarf. “Freak?”

A look of relief flooded Anderson’s face. “You can see him, too?”

She nodded, eyes wide. “But…” She glanced over to John and Greg.

John didn’t think he’d be able to keep a straight face for much longer, but did his best not to give anything away as he looked at her. “Problem, Donovan?”

Say what you would about Sally Donovan, but she wasn’t a coward. Instead of gawping at the apparition, she strode across the room with no regard for the crime scene evidence and reached out a hand toward Sherlock. Just before she touched him, he grabbed her hand and said, “Boo.”

At her shriek, John couldn’t help it. He started laughing, Greg chuckling beside him as he nodded at his friend. “Well done, Sherlock.”

Anderson looked stunned. “What? You _can_ see him?”

Sherlock smirked. “Of course they can see me. I’m standing right here.”

“But … you’re dead,” said Donovan, standing with one hand over her heart, as if trying to contain it.

“Well, not _technically_ ,” said Sherlock. “Legally, though, yes, I was. Apparently coming back from the dead involves an inordinate amount of paperwork.” He glanced over at Greg. “Lestrade, good to see you.”

“You, too. You look better than you did the other morning.”

“John’s been looking after me,” said Sherlock.”

Greg laughed. “Because naturally the man with the concussion and gunshot wound is the logical caretaker.”

“It is when he’s a doctor and the other one is Sherlock Holmes,” said John. “Having the British press corps outside the door didn’t help, though.”

“Wait…” Sally said. “You _knew_?”

“Just since the video,” Greg told her. 

She rounded on Sherlock. “That video … so, it was a fake, then?” She looked furious, as if the guilt she’d felt watching it was his fault.

Sherlock just shook his head, a look of resigned patience on his face. “Of course it wasn’t. Everything that shows on that video was real. Moriarty forced me into jumping—it was the only way to save the others.”

“But…” Anderson still looked flummoxed. “Then how are you alive? Were you hurt?”

“Moriarty forced me into jumping,” said Sherlock, “But he didn’t know I’d put plans in place … the jump was real. The landing … not so much. However, it was necessary for his men to think it was real so … I died.”

Sally was glaring at John now. “Did you know?”

He held up his hands. “No, honestly, I didn’t. Apparently they needed me to be convincing and so didn’t want to risk telling me in case I let something slip. Believe me, I’ve made my opinion on this very clear, haven’t I, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said meekly, though with a twinkle in his eye, and then he clapped his hands together. “The important thing is that we’re all back together again. Now, John, you were sadly mistaken in your analysis of this so-called crime scene. I’m really quite disappointed in you. I thought you’d learned something while I was gone.”

John shook his head. “So it was female instead of male. Is that really so important, Sherlock?”

“Details, John. It’s all in the details,” said Sherlock.

“So the killer was a woman?” asked Donovan, just as Anderson said, “I thought you said it wasn’t a murder.”

John couldn’t help the smile on his face at their confusion, but pulled his face back into a sober expression when Greg held up his hand. “Okay, so it wasn’t a murder, it wasn’t suicide. It was an accident caused by … a woman?”

“Well, a female,” said Sherlock, looking over at John. “Want to take us through it?”

John smiled back, relishing the role reversal. “Not a woman. It was her pet cat.” He pointed at the bookcase. “The case is overflowing because she obviously loved to read, but her most recent purchases weren’t placed securely. She presumably tried to weight the pile down with that marble bookend, but it was still precarious, and when her cat walked across the top at just the wrong moment…”

“…She unbalanced the pile just enough to make it fall as her owner was leaning over, looking at the books on a lower shelf. Purely accidental, since one can’t truly blame the cat.”

“Female?” asked Greg mildly.

Sherlock pointed to a battered, pink catnip mouse in the corner. “No woman would buy her tomcat a pink toy. Really, John, I’m shocked you missed that.”

John shrugged. “I hadn’t really had a chance to look that carefully before you showed up, Sherlock. I’ll try to do better next time.”

He glanced over to Donovan and Anderson, now standing together, speechless, as they stared at Sherlock. “Are they going to be all right?”

Greg gave a look and said, lips twitching. “Eventually, I’m sure, but for now…” He pulled out his phone and snapped a photo. 

 

#

 

They were barely beyond the police tape when John burst out laughing. “That,” he said, “That was almost worth the last two years. The look on their faces!”

Sherlock’s lips curled up into one of his rare smiles. “It was Anderson believing I was a ghost, yet still taking my advice on the crime that I think I appreciated the most.”

“ _Can you see him?_ ” quoted John, bursting into fresh laugher. “Oh, that was priceless. My only regret was that I couldn’t record it for posterity.”

Sherlock’s smile grew even broader, and he flicked at his lapel. “Courtesy of Mycroft. I think he wanted to watch as well.”

John grinned at the tiny camera. That did it. All was right in the world. Sherlock was back. Mycroft was doing his usual sneaky spy work but making himself useful. Greg’s faith was vindicated. Donovan and Anderson were firmly (and hilariously) put back in their proper places, and he was out in the sunshine with his resurrected best friend.

“Lunch?”

“Starving,” said Sherlock. They turned into a café further up the block as Sherlock explained that they had a couple hours before the press conference Mycroft had insisted on.

As they settled at their table, John heard a familiar tune wafting through the air and, smiling to himself, he settled in to listen as Sherlock started to tell him about his morning.

“ _You can be amazing. You can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug… I just want to see you be brave._ ”

 

#

 

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, good Lord, did I ever have fun writing this chapter. I hope it reads as funny as I thought it was, because I was chortling practically the whole time ... this after laughing out loud in the car last week when the idea occurred to me. Hope you had fun!

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't listened yet, do go check out the song. “[Brave](http://brave.sarabareilles.com/).”
> 
> Seriously. Go. The lyrics are so perfect for John here, you won't want to miss it. 
> 
> (But don't blame me later when you hum it for days. It's worth it.)


End file.
